Trapped
by Evelyn Reid
Summary: Vilkas had always intended to marry a domestic woman, settle down and have a family. One false night shatters that dream for him as he finds himself married to the elegant yet cold Aveline. By all appearances, she holds no fondness for him. So why did she propose? And why, oh why, did he say YES? M for sexual situations & language. Vilkas/Dragonborn
1. Marriage

A/N: Another Skyrim fic, but this one has a different tone. Mostly from Vilkas' point of view with a different take on the Dragonborn.

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Marriage in Skyrim wasn't an unhappy occasion. Arranged marriages were mostly eliminated; the majority married for love. That wasn't to say no one married for power, money, or position—it was just fewer and far between. He himself had always imagined falling in love with a woman, marrying, having a family, maybe even settling on a farm outside of Whiterun. This had ruined his chance for it; the marriage could not be annulled, the priests of Mara did not believe in divorce and would not grant one, and it was the condition of marriage that even should his "wife" die, he couldn't marry another. Why, _why_ had he said yes? And in such a bitterly embarrassing way, no less.

She had caught him off guard, walking into his room under the pretense of needing training. _Training_—he should have seen through it then and he kicked himself for not. She wasn't dressed for training, donned in a thin black slip, her moon-colored skin glowing through the flimsy barely-there material. It left nothing to the imagination, hanging partially open at her bosom. He had never known her to wear anything of the sort, but it was late at night and could have been what she wore to bed. Hanging low in the valley of her breasts was the tell-tale amulet. Looking back, what reason would she have had for wearing it to sleep? The whole ordeal had been a setup; something he should have noticed from the very beginning.

Instead of coming to his senses at that moment, he had choked on his own voice for a few minutes while his absurd, idiotic mind whispered to him that she was beautiful. He had stumbled through a dopey line about the amulet, asking if she had her eye on someone, asking if her interest was in him. Rather than answering him, she had whispered—rather seductively, he thought, or perhaps it had just been too long since he'd had a woman—her own question, asking if _he_ held an interest in _her_. His lips had moved almost of their own accord, babbling that damned line that now reverberated within his skull, "I'd be glad to stand by your side until the Divines take us, if you'll have me."

_If you'll have me_, he'd said! She had held all the power, and as he thought it over, he was sure she must have known it. She had smiled, walked flowingly to where he stood and, placing both her small hands on his chest, kissed him. The illusion of her beauty, her warmth towards him, had continued the next day into their travels to Riften and through the course of their wedding. The candlelight had danced ardently across her lips, inviting him for another of her poison kisses as Maramal pronounced them man and wife before their friends. All the Companions stood in the temple to bear witness, all surprised at the suddenness of such affection between the two. He hadn't been able to stop kissing her—she was his oxygen, and for that time he had thought she reciprocated. He had uttered his intentions—foolish, sensitive, _vulnerable_ intentions—to purchase Breezehome for her, to which she smiled softly against his lips and told him to go on without her; she had some business to attend to, but she would meet him as soon as she could. He knew of her role, her duties, her many responsibilities; he let her go, with one last kiss, and headed home to Whiterun without her.

That had been two weeks ago.

Needless to say, his resentment at his "wife" had been building since he first began to feel that he had been duped. She had sent a courier to Breezehome, explaining she would return when the week was out, and so here he sat—on a chair facing the door, his arms crossed, and half a mind to just leave. Why he sat there, had remained for these two long angering weeks, he didn't know. There was a gentle knock at the door, and he realized as he stood that she didn't have a key.

He threw the door wide, mouth open to demand some sort of explanation from her, and she placed a kiss to the underside of his chin—that was as far up as she could reach without standing on tiptoe. The move, however, was robotic. "Hello, husband," she said, tone empty. "I'm sorry to have kept you."

He remained there, stunned in the doorway, as she breezed past him. All traces of warmth or fondness she'd shown him from the night of proposal was gone. She was back to how she had treated him before—distant, cold, formal. His chest tightened uncomfortably at this realization. He strode forward, determined to get answers from her.

She moved about the home with more grace than he'd ever seen from a warrior. It was hard to imagine that the delicate hands removing her armor held a greatsword poised in battle. The Breton woman was stunning, that much was true—upon first look at her long flowing ebony locks and crystalline green eyes, every able bodied man in Whiterun had wanted to take her to bed. What turned them off wasn't that she was Dragonborn, the warrior of legend who housed a dragon's soul and was destined to take down the World-Eater, Alduin; no, it was the way her eyes passed over them, the way she glided when she walked, her chin held so high that in a matter of seconds each of those men was convinced she belonged to a king. She was unattainable, unapproachable…dare he even say intimidating. He himself, after living with her and training with her when she joined the Companions early in her days of Skyrim, had only seen her falter once—Aela had handed her a bow, and the woman had stared at it as though it would come alive and instruct her on its use. She had an eternal mask of calm control, and her apparent lack of passion infuriated him.

"Where had you gone?" he demanded. He mentally scolded himself for his weakness when she stood bare before him, her armor piled in her arms as she ascended the stairs. He followed behind her like a smitten dog asking for scraps.

"When I informed you I had business, you said you understood." He could hear nothing but annoyance in her lilting voice.

"You left the Companions without their Harbinger for two weeks." His anger was fast approaching, and he diverted it from the true reason for it.

"You are second to the Harbinger, Vilkas, and now my husband. Did you not take over while I was absent?"

He had, but she was missing the point. How dare she make a fool of him, marry him and run off. Something occurred to him suddenly—they had yet to consummate the marriage. Perhaps, if he went back to Maramal, the priest would be sympathetic. His eyes caught a glint; her ring sparkled brightly on her finger as she dressed herself in a gown, and he looked down at the gold band on his own hand almost with a sigh. He could feel pieces of his rage dropping away.

"Do you have any idea how it looks when I cannot tell people where my new _wife_ has gone off to?" He stepped into the room towards her, no longer content to brood in the doorway, and her eyes appraised him, gauging the level of his anger.

"I had no idea that you cared so deeply for appearances," she stated. "I was away and now I have returned; that's what matters, husband. Go before me to Jorrvaskr, will you?"

"Gladly," he said with a growl as his frustration with her slammed back into him full force. However, as his eyes swept over her form, he couldn't help asking another question. "What occasion at Jorrvaskr requires such a dress?"

"I can't very well approach Jarl Balgruuf in my bloodied armor, now can I?"

_I wasn't aware you were stopping at Dragonsreach._ He kept another growl from escaping, launching himself down the steps and out into the brisk twilight air.

The woman had always frustrated him—anyone who could remain calm in a situation that _demanded _a certain fire, a passion of spirit, frustrated him. His twin had laughed at him on many occasions.

"Just get to know her," Farkas had said. "She's great."

_Great_, his brother had said. Besides being a delight on the eyes, he had yet to see what about her was so very _great_. He took the walk to Jorrvaskr at a near run, wrenching open the door as the warmth of the fire pit greeted him. Farkas sat alone at a bench—Vilkas could hear Athis and Njada having a heated argument out back, and Aela was no doubt downstairs. Farkas glanced up to face his brother with a surprised expression.

"You look livid," Farkas observed dryly. "Worried about Aveline? Wasn't she supposed to return today?"

"_Worried_ about her?" Vilkas bit his tongue against the myriad of sharp responses he had to that question. Farkas did not deserve his rage. "Yes, brother, she returned today."

The larger of the twins craned his neck, trying to peer around Vilkas. "Where is she?"

"Dragonsreach." He couldn't help the sour tone to his voice…not that he tried necessarily hard to hide his displeasure.

Farkas took in his brother carefully. "Why are you so unhappy? Did the two of you fight?"

_Fight?_ Fight with _her_? She, who let a frost troll bat her around like a toy and never so much as yelled? She, whose unending unwavering calm was the bane of his existence? _She_, who hadn't so much as raised a fist in anger even when the cold-blooded bastards of the Silver Hand had infiltrated their home and murdered the greatest among them?

"No," spoke Vilkas through clenched teeth. "We did not fight."

"Then what warrants such a face?" There was a teasing edge to Farkas' vioice. Apparently he had determined Vilkas was not quite angry enough to be serious.

"Where shall I start?" Vilkas dropped into the bench beside his brother.

Farkas clapped one hand on Vilkas' shoulder and the other reached to get him a bottle of mead. "The beginning might be best." When Vilkas swept his head to glare, Farkas tilted his head toward him with a cheeky grin. "Honestly, Vilkas, you used to talk to Kodlak all the time."

Vilkas stared at his mead bottle. Kodlak had essentially been his father, or at the very least the closest thing to it. Vilkas, as everyone knew, was an intelligent man—numerous people, Companion or not, came to him for advice for everything from battle tactics to matters of the heart. Farkas himself had come to him quite a few times when trying to court a woman, the most recent of whom was Ysolda. Kodlak had known, however, that as a man Vilkas was not immune to needing such advice and had become Vilkas' only confidante. He sorely wished now more than ever that the old Harbinger was still alive.

"Farkas, my marriage is…" He fished for the proper word. Farkas and Aveline were close, extremely so for her reserved personality, and it occurred to him that anything negative he had to say about her could possibly head her way. He wanted to remain as truthful to the situation as possible without badmouthing her…After all, she was still his wife.

"Is what?" Farkas urged carefully.

"Complicated," his twin settled. "Unbearably complicated."

To his surprise, Farkas laughed. "I figured as much, actually, from how hasty the marriage was. I mean, none of us even knew you were courting her! She didn't even tell me she liked you!"

Vilkas felt his face beginning to burn, whether in embarrassment at his predicament or renewed anger at the situation she had placed him in he wasn't sure. He waited until his brother's laughter had died down before opening his mouth to answer. Farkas, however, was too quick for him.

"So when is she due?"

Whatever color Vilkas had gained in his face drained instantly. His jaw nearly dropped. "W-what?"

"That's the reason for the swift marriage, isn't it? She's with child?" At his brother's stunned expression, Farkas drew his brows together. "She's not, is she? Damn. Was she set to marry another and you were overcome? Swept her away from him?"

Vilkas felt his nose wrinkle as his mind tried to picture it. Honestly, he had never pictured her marrying; it didn't seem to fit her personality, and she sure as hell had not shown an interest in any man that he had seen. The night of the proposal, in his room, in that translucent dress, was the softest he had ever seen her—and that, at least to him, had been a lie. He had entertained the notion for a while early on that she would marry his brother, steeling himself lest he be stuck with her for a sister-in-law. He had banished the thought rather quickly when he heard the whispers around Whiterun that Jarl Balgruuf was besotted with the Dragonborn, and it had seemed much more fitting for her to marry a Jarl, despite the age difference and the Jarl's three children.

"No," sighed Vilkas. His memory had reminded him again that she had no reason to marry him, held no affection for him, and now instead of being angry he felt strangely tired. "She was not set to marry another."

Farkas looked thoughtful, tapping his chin. "Not a baby, not another man…What is it then? It's odd that she wouldn't tell me she was in love with you. I expected it from you to hide your feelings, brother, not her."

"That's the thing, Farkas." He expressed another sigh. "She's not in love with me. Far from it."

His brother didn't seem to grasp it. "What do you mean she's not?" he demanded. "Why would she marry you if she wasn't?"

"I don't know, your guess is as good as mine."

"Why did you propose, then?"

"She…" Vilkas' dark eyes searched his brother's, hoping foolishly that Farkas would know the answer. "In a way, she proposed to me. I don't…I couldn't honestly tell you right now why I said yes. She just looked so…and she acted…"

Frustrated at his weakness, he took a fast swig of the mead in front of him and let his forehead clunk to the table. Farkas, through his confusion, found a way to organize his face into an expression of amusement. "You love her."

"I do not!" Vilkas snarled, eyes flashing fire. Had the two brothers still possessed the beast spirit, Farkas had no doubts that Vilkas' control might have snapped clean in two. "She is the bane of my existence. She has tricked me somehow, enchanted me that night, _ensnared me forever_, and now I am trapped."

"For someone who claims not to be in love, she's certainly gotten under your skin."

"If that is love, let it die." He drank more of his mead, swallowing it fast and willing the alcohol to improve his mood. "No man deserves this."

"You are too quick to condemn it, brother. Give it some time." Farkas grinned wolfishly and winked. "Being married to the beauty of Skyrim can't be that terrible."

Vilkas had no desire to explain to his brother their lack of contact, and his disgust at the situation was seeping into his opinion of the woman. Before, he'd admit, he had watched her lithe body move in battle and wondered if she moved like that in the bedroom. He had imagined, after bemoaning her lack of passion, if it came to a peak during sex, if he could make her moan and scream and writhe beneath him. Since she had joined the Companions nearly four years ago, then just a fresh face, green, a new blood, his desires had tripled, and suddenly no woman had satisfied him. Marriage would be his opportunity to sample her, but he could not, _would not_, take her if she was unwilling.

The door opened, alerting them with a creak. Vilkas didn't have to look to know who entered; her soft steps made it obvious. Any of the other Companions would have stomped in. Farkas gave her a blinding smile.

"Aveline!" he exclaimed, standing to embrace her. Vilkas didn't turn, didn't want to see her treat his brother with tenderness when she couldn't even remain in the same room as her husband. Why could she not muster the same warmth for the man she was _married_ to?

"Good evening, Farkas." She was smiling. He could _hear _it.

"It's been too long! Where did you vanish off to?"

"Just a few things to take care of for a friend of mine in Riverwood."

There was no irritation to her tone the way there had been when Vilkas asked. He downed more of his mead.

"Come, sit by your husband," Farkas ushered, sensitive to his brother's tightening back.

"I can't possibly," she said, and Vilkas clenched his jaw so hard that his teeth clicked together. "It's getting late and I'm very tired from traveling. I came to speak with Tilma about some official business and then I shall head home."

He felt eyes on his back and ignored them, drinking.

"I will see you at home, husband."

Oh, look at that, a comment directed at _him_ for a change, how lovely. He ignored it stubbornly. Farkas, ever the mediator, attempted to placate the situation. "Can't you stay a while? Vilkas and I have missed you while you were gone."

She laughed, _laughed_, and it sounded like the tinkling of bells. "I'm afraid I truly can't, Farkas. I promise I will take the time to come see you tomorrow, and as for Vilkas, well…He is my husband now, is he not?"

"You tell me," grumbled Vilkas around his mead bottle. "Certainly doesn't feel like it."

This time, it was she who ignored him. "I will see him at home, and every day, for the rest of my life."

_Don't sound so fucking thrilled about it, Dragonborn._

It had been over a year since he had last referred to her, even in his own mind, as the Dragonborn. He didn't stop to analyze its meaning, he merely stood—so quickly in fact that the bench skidded back against the floor—and rushed past them both. He saw from the corner of his eye when she frowned, her head following him as he left. Her voice cut through the haze of his mind, as it always did.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

He wanted to laugh. She wasn't really concerned now, was she? He wanted to leave without answering her, but before he realized it he had replied, "Bannered Mare." He cursed under his breath. "Don't follow me," he added harshly, and then he was out in the night headed towards a few hours of alcohol-induced bliss.

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A/N: I would really appreciate some reviews for this. Please and thank you.


	2. Compromise

A/N: Slightly shorter chapter. Sorry it took so long, hopefully this will tide you all over! Thank you for every review!

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He walked home still grouchy, grumbling, and only mildly inebriated. He trudged up the stairs, wiping at his eyes with his hand, and stopped in the doorway of the bedroom. His _wife_ was directly across from him, wearing that same damnable black slip and bent over as she delved into the chest against the opposite wall. His desire flared to life as his eyes traced the curve of her back as it dipped and the roundness of her ass. Her thighs and bottom were fleshy but, he suspected, firm with tone, and her hips jutted from her waist in a remarkably shapely way. She stood to face him, turning slightly, and he realized she had been unpacking her armor and gear. He also realized that her warrior lifestyle had led to a smaller bust than most women he'd enjoyed.

"So you return," she said, tone flat. "Don't think for a moment you'll be stumbling into my bed smelling like Colovian brandy and women."

"_Your_ bed?" he scoffed. "I seem to recall being the one to buy the house. As for your other remark, it's a pointless dig. I barely drank and I had no women."

There was no malice in her voice, no accusation, simply a blatant expression of expectation and he realized with a start that not only did she believe he would have an affair, she anticipated it of him. His fists clenched. "I'm sorry my character disappoints you. We entered into this…agreement, and no matter the displeasure I will keep to my end of it. I will remain faithful."

Her eyes appraised him, jewels in her heart-shaped face, but at that exact moment he would have found a hagraven more attractive and approachable. "Do you expect me to do the same?"

For the longest of moments they stood there, gaze locked, and he didn't believe her. Her tone was so serious, though, so solid. She had never been one to joke around, except around Farkas, and he had never heard her use sarcasm; he wasn't even sure if she was aware of how to use it. It sunk in fully—she intended to sleep with other men. His fists were so tightly closed on themselves that he felt his fingernails draw blood from his palm. He wanted to stay calm, to be as infuriating to her as she was to him, but it was just not in his nature. He let loose an animalistic roar—he needed to hit something, needed to slice something, kill something, anything to expel his rage—

She kissed him then, swallowing his fury, and in his bewilderment he allowed her. Then his senses returned and he shoved her violently away.

"How dare you," he growled dangerously. "Don't touch me."

If the blatant, angry rejection stung her, she didn't show it. "If you're thinking that remaining celibate in our marriage will give Maramal a reason to perform an annulment, you're mistaken. I spoke with him about it before the ceremony. Our marriage does not have to be consummated to be binding."

He recoiled physically at her prediction of his previous thoughts.

"If you would like a sexless marriage, Vilkas, it makes no difference to me."

How could she be this way? How could she fight for the fate of Skyrim, battle dragons, take down a legendary long-dead ancient like Alduin, if she so obviously lacked passion!

"Why did you marry me then?" Finally, the question had been asked. It had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for days, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, and now it was finally in the open. If only she would answer it. When she didn't respond, he continued, hoping to goad her into it. "You care not for me, you don't give a damn about sex, you don't seem apt to begin any wifely duties anytime soon, so tell me, _Aveline_," he spoke her name with venom, "why become my wife?"

"What exactly do you define as wifely duties, Vilkas?" She observed him evenly, unsurprised by his emotions.

"You're avoiding the question!" he bellowed. "Why did you marry me, Aveline? Tell me why! Did you not realize I would take it seriously?"

"No."

Vilkas blinked, anger leaving him in a whoosh with his breath, as if he had been on the receiving end of a warhammer to the chest. "What?"

"I truly did not foresee you taking our marriage this seriously," she elaborated. Honesty rang in her every word. "I saw you as my perfect option: you disliked me as much as I did. We avoided each other as much as a leader and her second in command can. I spoke to you only when occasions with Farkas demanded it. I expected our marriage to change nothing."

"Why marry at all?" he asked, feeling desperation leech into his voice. "What did you hope to gain? Why act so…differently the night you proposed?"

She addressed the last question first. "I was pleasantly surprised it worked, actually. I knew I would need to appeal to your needs as a man in order for you to agree to such a proposal; no man would say yes in their right mind if I explained why I truly wished to marry, least of all you."

"Which brings us back to the question, Aveline: _Why_?" _Why did you rope me into this? How is your conscience clear knowing we will now be forced to make each other miserable for the rest of our lives?_

"It was necessary," she said, as casually as if she were discussing the weather. "I needed to get society, one man in particular, off my back. I'm the Dragonborn, a warrior, but just because I'm a woman and Alduin is gone, they expect me to marry."

"So you married me," he said slowly, "to stop other men from proposing?"

"One other man," she corrected. "Essentially, if that is how you would like to phrase it, yes. It was a logical step, though, wouldn't you say? I didn't do it out of any malice towards you, Vilkas, contrary to what you may think of me right now."

He strode forward, grabbing her upper arms in a vice grip and shaking her. "What if I wanted something else? What if I had my eye on someone? What if I wanted a _happy_ marriage, with someone I _loved_? Did you consider that?"

"I did." Her eyes seemed almost to soften. "If you met any of those conditions, Vilkas, you wouldn't have said yes."

He dropped her, trembling, and knew that she was right. He turned away from her, muttering, "I'll sleep in the guest room."

Before she could protest, if she even had a mind to, he had slammed the bedroom door closed behind him.

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The next morning, with barely a headache left as a reminder of the night before, Vilkas awoke to a hearty plate of breakfast and a beautiful woman sitting in a chair by the edge of his bed. His eyes narrowed immediately, but she seemed oddly demure, sitting with her head bowed and her hands clasped in her lap.

"I made you breakfast," she said. "Wifely duties, that's what you called it, right? I suppose it is something I agreed to when I tricked you into such a union." She looked up at him, and for the first time he saw a glimmer of something on her regal face. "I know you do not think very highly of me, Vilkas. Know that I didn't intend for you to get hurt, and I will do all I can to ease the misery you suffer at my hand. I wasn't intending to be cruel. I will compromise."

"Compromise," he scoffed.

"I know you think me…unfeeling." She hesitated, and when she began again, her voice had evened out—he had almost missed the slight tremor to it. She changed the subject, though he wished more than anything she would elaborate on what she had started to say. "We will live here, under the guise of husband and wife. I will cook your dinner, shine your blades, polish your armor, and, if you can stomach me, we will sleep in the same bed. You don't have to lie with me as a lover, I will not force that. If you wish to take another woman, or several, I will not stop you. In exchange, you will not demand more of me than I have offered."

She stopped, waiting for him to respond in some way. He didn't, and while it wasn't an outright agreement, he supposed it couldn't be taken as a rejection of the idea either. It was certainly a more preferable situation to the one they were in currently; with him brooding about, angry at her and alone, and her vanishing from sight without so much as a warning.

"It was selfish of me to trick you; I had forgotten, in the throes of my own distress, that this would affect your life so fully. Accept my sincerest of apologies. This doesn't have to be the end of your happiness."

"How is an apology to be perceived as sincere when I've never seen you sincerely anything?" he asked flatly.

She blinked at him, those small pink lips forming a slight O. "I…I have emotions, Vilkas, like anyone else."

He grunted, wanting to press her, wanting to ask why she never showed them, but he knew she wouldn't answer. She wouldn't open up to him about that. "You said not to demand more of you."

"Yes?" She eyed him carefully. "Is there a condition of my compromise that you are dissatisfied with?"

"I simply want to add one." Here, he sat up fully, leaning forward to look as far into her eyes as he dared. "You will tell me, explicitly and openly, when you are going somewhere, where you are going, and how long until you return. No more guessing games, no more waiting on a courier unless your plans have changed. I don't have to know what you're doing, but I am not fond of letting you run around Skyrim with no idea of your whereabouts."

The corner of her mouth tugged upwards in what he could have almost called a smile. "I will allow it."

His pulse quickened at the victory, and he boldly reached forward to tilt her face up. "One more," he said, feeling almost breathless. "I am allowed to ask you one question a day, any question I like, and you must answer it."

The traces of a smile vanished and her eyes began to narrow, and he realized he had been too brash. "Very well," she replied, stiff as a board once again. His hand dropped from her chin and she remarked dryly, "It seems you're getting more out of this compromise than I am."

"You stole something precious from me," he muttered. "Do you not think I'm entitled?"

"To be fair," she whispered, standing from her chair, "I gave up something as well." She stopped in the doorway, her dress falling behind like a waterfall of silk. For a warrior, he thought, she dressed herself stunningly when out of armor. He surmised that, despite owning no property, the Dragonborn had an immense amount of wealth. _Benefits of being a real-life Nordic legend, I suppose_. "You might want to eat before it gets cold," she remarked finally, and then she was gone from the guest room.

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A/N: I believe her character is consistent; perhaps she's hiding more than she lets on. Reviews always appreciated.


	3. A Woman's Worth

A/N: Super long chapter up next, hopefully this offers some insight into Aveline's personality. It also gives a few more hints as to why she acts the way she does.

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The day went at an achingly slow pace. Vilkas found himself watching her often from across the room, the way her body moved, the way her gaze now slightly lingered on him when she caught him looking. Once, he thought she was even going to go so far as to smile at him. The moment passed, and he looked down at the table to find that his fist had closed harshly enough on itself to leave crescent marks on his palm. Farkas noticed, sighing at the obvious effect the distant woman was having on his twin, and tried to get Vilkas' mind on anything else in the mead hall. He even went so far as to encourage Ria, the poor red-faced girl, to engage his brother. This proved to be a fruitless endeavor; though Ria blushed and giggled and placed a delicate feminine hand on Vilkas' arm, the man continued to glower at his drink, only looking worse when something Torvar said made Aveline laugh.

If she was going to take Torvar as a lover, at least she was being discrete about it. She shied away from whatever touches he attempted and, aside from the laugh, was smiling as faintly as she smiled with everyone else.

Vilkas stood, the hair standing up on the back of his neck, muscles taut with rage. Aveline was surprisingly in tune with him, eyes meeting his the moment he stood even from across the hall. She dismissed Torvar with a forced touch to his shoulder, lips tight, not that the intoxicated Nord could tell. He stumbled away with a cheeky grin, while Aveline glided over to her husband. She touched his hand, gently taking it in her own.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to Ria, speaking softly. "It seems I have been neglecting my husband. If you'll excuse us."

Vilkas' gaze shot to his brother, who was grinning hugely. The moment the air of night hit his face, his surprise vanished. "What are you doing?" he growled.

"You seemed unhappy," she supplied. "This was the logical course of action." Still, she held onto his hand. The touch was tentative, but as it was the only physical contact they were likely to have, he allowed it. A strange surge of something passed through him from the almost imperceptible touch of her fingertips. "Besides, it's getting rather late. I believe part of our compromise was that I cook your supper."

As if on cue, his stomach gurgled embarrassingly loud. The ghost of real amusement passed over her face, but she turned from him before he could see if it solidified there in her expression. "Come, husband."

She was quiet the rest of the time as she led him to their home, silent as the grave as she cooked. He sat at the dining table awkwardly, not knowing where to look. Would she think him leering if he were to watch her? Would she think him haughty and expectant if he did not? He settled in the end on watching her, one arm slung across the back of his chair in an attempt to seem comfortable. She seemed relaxed and at ease, shoulders lowered and chin downward as her posture lost its rigidity. She spoke to him while facing the cooking pot.

"You certainly paid Ria some extra attention tonight," she said. "Have you made the decision to take a woman?"

"No," he ground out, body tensing. "I haven't."

"Ah. My assumption has angered you." She placed a steaming plate in front of him. "Stew," she added when he stared at it warily. "Shouldn't be too terrible, Vilkas, I've been told I'm an adequate cook." She smiled at his continued hesitance. "Just because I am not inclined to cook or clean doesn't mean I'm not well-versed in such things."

_Of course,_ he thought. _Of course she's good at cooking. The woman's an anomaly._ She was graceful and sophisticated as a lady of the highest courts, cold and hard as tempered steel; a battle-hardened warrior in the body of a duchess. Not for the first time did he wonder what she was doing slumming around with the Companions when her mysterious and apparently well-bred past hinted at something more…refined.

"I think I shall get some groceries before the week is out, a wider variety of ingredients," she mused, almost to herself.

She seated herself across from him at the table with her own plate, eating slowly and daintily. He stopped, fork halfway to his mouth, and felt suddenly—_absurdly_—self-conscious. She noticed with the same smile.

"Don't be a dolt, husband," she murmured. "Just eat."

He did as she suggested; he cleaned his plate long before hers was half empty, and when he had finished she gathered both plates to wash. He wanted to comment on the amount she had left uneaten but, worried the comment would be misinterpreted, stayed silent.

"You're being very…domestic." He chose his words carefully, restating the sentence multiple times in his own head before daring to say it aloud.

"I am a warrior," she said, "but I was born a woman."

"Your childhood," he blurted suddenly. "What was it like?"

She froze, posture returning. "My past is past, husband."

He stood from his chair, standing behind her. He didn't mean to come off as intimidating, but he must have—a small tremor shook her body as she felt his presence. "You agreed I was allowed one question per night."

"A more specific question, then," she said, almost grudgingly.

Her past, unknown to him and the other Companions as she had never spoken about it, was an object of great interest to him. However, if he didn't approach this carefully, he knew it could easily backfire. "Your parents, then. I want to know about them."

"Specific, Vilkas."

He sighed, running a hand through his dirty, unkempt dark hair. He needed to bathe tonight… "What were your parents _like_, Aveline?"

For a few long, brutal seconds, he truly believed she would simply refuse to answer. Then she sighed almost as if in defeat. "I can tell you don't even know how to be more specific about it. Very well. My mother was a noblewoman, the daughter of a prominent family. My father was the son of a merchant." She breezed past him, and he remained, dejected by the answer.

"And?" he urged.

"You smell of sweat and blood and mead."

He blinked at her, confused. She let out another sigh before raising her head high, as he was used to seeing it. "Come then," she commanded.

He stayed, rooted to the spot, his mind not fully processing. She gestured with a wave of her delicate hands as she began to descend the stairs. "Come," she said again. "You ought to bathe. I can tell you find my answers…unsatisfactory. I shall elaborate once you're clean."

The tension he felt in that moment as he followed her down the stairs could have killed a mammoth. She led him to the basement, where a bath tub had been specially put there—he'd known when he bought Breezehome how she enjoyed the occasional soak in the tubs of Jorrvaskr, and had asked Proventus Avenicci to furnish the basement with a bathroom of sorts instead of an alchemy lab. The woman had never taken to alchemy.

"I meant to thank you for this," she whispered, voice low as she began to heat the bath water over the fire pit. He fidgeted uncomfortably as her eyes drew over him. "Are you going to bathe fully dressed, Vilkas?"

His eyes narrowed; surely the woman was jesting. She didn't intend to stay and watch him bathe, did she? He stripped himself of his armor, growing more sullen and sour by the second. She, meanwhile, had filled the bathtub and the room was beginning to fill with steam. She noted he hadn't removed his underclothes and raised a delicate eyebrow.

"Don't be shy, husband," she said then, putting slight emphasis on 'husband'. He stiffened as she met his eyes and added, "You can't possibly be embarrassed…?"

"Of course not," he snapped. He removed his underclothes, her eyes never leaving his, never drifting lower. "Are you going to stand here the whole time?"

"Of course not, husband," she murmured. "I'm going to wash you."

He watched her with suspicion—though her voice held no warmth, which he had come to expect from her in the time he'd known her, she was being very submissive. Very matrimonial. Very odd. _What's she playing at? _Was this all just part of her apology from that morning? Did she truly feel remorse for tricking him into such a loveless marriage? He sunk himself into the nearly scalding water, hissing as it touched his skin. For a moment, he thought he saw the woman's iron mask waver.

"Too hot?" she asked.

Vilkas' gaze snapped to her in surprise at her concern. "It's fine," he said. "Why are you so worried about pleasing me?"

"I…am merely trying to apologize."

He could sense it was more than that, knew there was something she wasn't saying, but he felt that way all the time around her. She was always holding back. Instead of pressing the matter, he leaned back in the tub and attempted to relax his tight muscles.

He had nearly succeeded when a feather-light touch on his shoulder caught him off guard. He started so quickly that the water in the tub almost sloshed over the edge. Another light touch on his other shoulder was her hand stilling him.

"Relax," she said.

He tried to inhale deeply, let his mind wander to anything else, but he was superhumanly aware of her hands on his skin as she dragged a soapy rag across his upper back. Soon, he lost his cautiousness, leaning into her touch as she cleaned him. It was easy to pretend that it was someone else when he closed his eyes; easy to pretend that he was in a happy marriage, with someone who loved him. He let his mind stray there, brought forth an image of his _real _wife—a simple woman, pretty but not unnecessarily beautiful, a mother for his children. He sighed contentedly as his imagination replaced his current situation. This new wife, the wife he deserved, was gentle with him, loving, her hand drifting to his front, down his collarbone. As she leaned over, he felt her breasts against his shoulder blades. He imagined stopping her, grabbing her hand and turning so he could kiss her, maybe dragging her into the bathtub with him. She would laugh, maybe playfully hit his chest for getting her clothes wet, but then he'd kiss her again and her eyes would be so full of love—

The sentimentality halted there as he groaned, head falling back against the warm body behind him. Her hand was drifting lower, growing bolder, applying just slightly more pressure—

His eyes shot open, image shattering, as the feminine hand dipped into the water. He gripped her wrist—_Aveline_, not the wife of his imagination, not the wife he wanted, not the wife he deserved, _Aveline_. She stilled, sensing she'd overstepped some invisible boundary.

"Don't pretend like you care for me," he hissed. "Don't you _dare_."

She said nothing, standing from her position behind him, and strode out of the room. He sighed, knowing he had probably angered her, and with a frustrated growl realized he had never gotten more information about her parents. He resolved to finish bathing, giving enough time for the both of them to cool off, before he confronted her again.

When he finally appeared in the bedroom doorway, he found her dressed for bed with a shield on her lap. She ran a polishing cloth over the metal of it, reminding him of her touch as he bathed, and an involuntary shiver passed through him.

"I can only assume," she said, eyes never rising from the shield, "that you've returned to pester me about my past because you realized I never answered you to your satisfaction."

"If it's such a damn touchy subject, I'll drop it," he scowled, hating how easily she riled him up.

She said nothing for a while. "You no doubt wonder about me. My past. The things I never talk about." A small smile graced her lips. "Farkas called me elegant once. Imagine, me, elegant."

"You don't agree?" Vilkas' brow furrowed.

Instead of answering that, she changed the subject. "When my mother married my father, it was a scandal. They were in love, you see. My mother's family wanted her to marry for stability, marry within her station and maintain the family name, but she…She wanted to marry for love." It was evident she held this idea with a certain amount of disdain. "Her family disowned her. Cut her off completely. She was shunned from the society she'd grown up in. My parents lived together in an inn for months while my father tried to find work and my mother sat like a useless human lump. That's when the fighting began."

Vilkas leaned against the doorway, watching her.

"They tried moving, getting away from High Rock. The problem was, they were trapped. With the Great War in Skyrim and the situation in Hammerfell…Somehow they made it across the borders, and I grew up living in Cyrodiil. I don't remember a time when my mother wasn't yelling at him." Her eyes narrowed, but she glared steadfastly down at the shield. "They separated before I was a teenager—not legally, of course, that wasn't allowed even in Cyrodiil. I lived with my father until my fourteenth birthday, and my mother came back to claim me. She had come up with this cockamamie plan to insert me into Cyrodilic high society, regain her status by marrying me off to someone of noble blood. She trained me for years in the ways of the upper class, the same things she'd been taught as a girl. Drilled it into me."

He listened with interest as her voice began to betray some anger at her retelling.

"I suppose her teachings must have stuck," she concluded.

"How in Talos' name did you get here, then?" he breathed, intrigued by her backstory—by the frightfully vague way with which she told it, and by the emotion it was bringing forth.

Suddenly her hand slipped on the glass shield, dragging sharply across the edge of it, and she came away with her palm stained with red. Vilkas reacted on instinct, cursing loudly and storming across to the bedside table where he had stashed the roll of bandages from his travel pack. He ripped the shield from her lap roughly, kneeling before her to bandage her hand. It wasn't like her to be so clumsy, but he had seen the flash of something across her face and knew that whatever she was thinking had distracted her enough for the wound. When the bandaging was complete, he lingered a moment more, wondering at the softness of her hands. Unlike the other women warriors he knew—Aela, Ria—she lacked the callouses of a hardened veteran, but now as he thought about it, he realized she had always worn gloves in battle…

"You can tell a woman's worth by her hands, my mother used to say," she whispered. "Beat me senseless if I ever did anything to endanger the look or feel of my hands. She'd be furious. Do you think it will scar?" She met his eyes, his face so close to hers, and for a moment he nearly forgot why he hated her. When she spoke again, he couldn't help when his gaze flickered down to her rosy lips. "Vilkas."

He nearly groaned aloud, forcing himself to remember where he was, who _she _was, what kind of situation she had gotten him into. His fingers trailed lightly up her arm—

"I'm tired," she said, leaning away from his touch. "It's best we part for the night."

Vilkas snapped back to his senses, jumping back from her as if she'd burned him. "Of course," he said. He was angry again—_How dare she try to fool me with niceties?_—but he stopped in the hall nevertheless and added, "What are your plans for tomorrow?"

"I must meet again with the Jarl and then immediately set out for Solitude." At his persistent stare, she sighed and added, "General Tullius has requested a meeting with me. You'll be pleasantly without my company for a week or so."

"Stop at Jorrvaskr beforehand," he said authoritatively. "I'll accompany you."

"The Companions need their second-in-command." Her thumb traced over the bandages on her palm. "I thank you for the offer, but I can take care of myself. I am far from delicate."

"On the contrary," he mumbled under his breath. She looked up at him questioningly, but his eyes were shadowed. "I won't see you tomorrow to say goodbye then." With that and a slam of the bedroom door, she was alone.

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A/N: People so often forget about Torvar and Vignar. Don't worry, Vignar gets a mention as well in a later chapter. Thank you all for reading and reviewing!


	4. Boys Recover

A/N: I'd just like to do a shout out and thank everyone for reviewing.

Specifically, Jack of the Void, I appreciate the detail of your review, and I meant to give you a mention in my last chapter. The feedback you gave me, the specifics you mentioned, made me proud to have written this. I value your opinion (and indeed all my reviewers' opinions) immensely. Please continue to read my story and give me any constructive criticism or praise you see fit.

Thank you again to everyone who leaves me feedback. I read it all and take it to heart.

* * *

He awoke the next morning to find her gone, and he couldn't help but think how this hasty departure was a giant step backwards from what he thought had been progress. He went downstairs, determined not to let this affect his mood. He was tired of letting her attitude so egregiously alter his own. When he opened the door to leave for Jorrvaskr, however, the person he was face to face with caused him to immediately sour.

"Jarl Balgruuf," he said stiffly. "What can I do for you?"

"Excuse me, Companion," said the Jarl, two guards on either side of him. Vilkas knew that Balgruuf liked to know the names of the residents of Whiterun, but as Vilkas had never been a social creature or bothered to introduce himself to the Jarl, he was being addressed as his armor identified him. "I was told this was the Dragonborn's residence. Is Aveline here? She told me she was leaving, but I had hoped to catch her before her departure."

"Indeed this is her residence," Vilkas responded. "She lives here with me, her husband."

Vilkas watched the other man's expression closely, seeing the flash of surprise. "Aveline never told me she was married."

"Did you never see her ring?" Vilkas had placed his hand meanwhile on the frame of the door so as to allow the Jarl an easy view of the gold band on his ring finger.

"I apologize, Companion. She never wore a ring in my company." The Jarl looked at first apologetic and then understanding. "I am nevertheless glad that she has found happiness. Please do not think I would interfere with that."

Vilkas merely grunted in response. She never wore her ring for the Jarl? Was she hiding her marriage from him? Was she ashamed of—He bit back a growl of anger. "I'll alert you when she has returned," he said through gritted teeth.

The Jarl thanked him and left, and within the hour Vilkas was packed and out of the Whiterun gate in search of his wife. If he kept a fast pace for a day, he'd catch up with her in no time; she only had a few hours' headstart.

He traveled for several slow, dragging hours until the sun was beginning to sink into the horizon, when suddenly the ground shook and an ungodly roar pierced his ears. There was a female's yell in a strange language, and a flash of light as he crested a hill. The scene below shocked him. He had heard stories of the Dragonborn's battle with dragons— Mirmulnir, Sahloknir, Nahagliiv, Alduin—but had chalked most of it up to over-exaggeration. Never again. Below him, at the base of the hill, Aveline fought a dragon. It was large, long and scaled, swiping at her with its claws. She hopped back, light on her feet as ever, swinging her greatsword to catch the underside of its throat. It lifted its head into the air and she charged, face contorted with more emotion than he'd ever seen. It launched into the air and she slashed at its underbelly, grazing it. Vilkas crouched low as the dragon circled overhead, pelting her with flames. It attempted to land on her and she rolled away, shoving her sword upwards into the fleshy, vulnerable part of its lower jaw, effectively pinning shut its mouth. Before Vilkas realized what he was doing, an arrow came whizzing through the air, piercing the dragon's eye. Aveline swung her gaze to him just as the dragon, howling in pain, wildly thrashed its head around. It caught her, throwing her body to the side like a rag doll. He tried to hastily let loose another arrow but this one bounced uselessly off its scales. Aveline, meanwhile, had already returned to her feet. She opened her mouth: "FUS RO DAH."

Vilkas was stunned to feel the waves of anger rolling off of her. Her face was stern and focused, however, as the force of her voice caused it to stumble mid takeoff and crash to the ground. She leaped into the air, somersaulting, and landed on the dragon's neck—in one smooth motion as she landed, she drove a dagger clasped in both hands straight down into the dragon's skull. Just like that it was over. She hopped off of its neck as the body swiftly decomposed to the skeleton, rays of golden light flowing from the dead beast into Aveline's chest. She picked up her sword from the corpse, turning at last to him as he jogged down the hill toward her.

"I've never seen you like that," he breathed. He had found it strangely erotic. She'd never held that expression during battle. Perhaps those tales about her and dragons held more truth than he'd thought.

"What the hell were you thinking?" she hissed. Heat radiated from her body, but as he looked over her, he noticed with a sinking feeling of uneasiness that much of the blood on her was not her enemy's. "You could have gotten us both killed!"

"You're injured." His eyes stuck on the cuts on her arms, the tears in her leather greaves where the neck scales had dug into her and ripped the flesh of her thighs—

"Don't touch me," she said, stepping back from him. "Do you realize what you could have done?"

His eyes flew to hers in surprise. Their deep green was lined with a golden yellow color that seemed to pulse within her irises, leaking forward to overtake the natural color. That coloring, before now, had never been there. "What in Oblivion has gotten into you?"

"Nothing!" She dug the heels of her palms into her eyes, taking slow, deep breaths. "Nothing."

"Aveline, I am your husband," he stated, trying to be firm.

"The dragon's soul," she whispered, hands still over her eyes, "the dragon's blood. That's all." She straightened her back, breathing beginning to even out. "That's all. I'm sorry. I'm fine."

His pulse, however, was still beating ferociously fast. He had seen it, proof she had passion, proof she could indeed display emotion, and suddenly his mind was flooded with all of the lewd ways with which he wanted to coax that passion out of her again, extract her anger and relish in it with her moans as he took her—

He bit his tongue harshly to stop himself from growling in desire, his body uncomfortably hot beneath his armor, and she snapped to him in sudden realization.

"Why were you following me?" she asked, blatantly annoyed at his appearance. "I told you the Companions needed—"

"I put Farkas in charge before I left."

Her eyes narrowed. She strutted over to a large boulder behind which she'd hidden her travel pack. She slung it across her back with a barely noticeable wince. He couldn't help the stare of disbelief that flowed forth as he watched her.

"How could you put Farkas in charge?" she accused. "Is that what you think of your duty as second-in-command? Just hand it off to your brother and waltz off after someone who is completely capable of taking care of herself?"

"I didn't just hand it off to him—"

She gestured at him with her hand as if brushing away his argument. "You're just lucky Farkas is a competent leader."

Vilkas bristled, getting the unfounded feeling that she was somehow subtly insulting his own abilities. Any biting comments he thought about returning died on his tongue as his gaze was brought back down to her injuries.

"I'm alright, Vilkas," she said, dropping the harsh tone of her voice. "Nothing serious. I'll heal myself when we get to Rorikstead."

"We?" He raised an eyebrow.

"You followed me here even though I told you not to when we were in Whiterun." She downed a health potion from her pack for good measure, trying to smile at him but faltering in her masked expression. "I doubt you'd listen to me now if I told you to go back."

She'd be right about that. He followed her the rest of the way to Rorikstead as night fell, looking anxiously for any signs of weakness from her injuries. She showed none. She walked with an uncompromised grace straight into the inn, blood coursing down her legs and arms, and the patrons within the inn stared. Vilkas' chest puffed with a sort of pride as one leering man noticed with a scowl their wedding bands glinting in the firelight. That's right, you lot, he thought. She's my wife.

He stopped suddenly behind her as she spoke to the innkeeper, asking for a room. That was the first time he had ever thought of their union with pride. What had gotten into him? She closed the door of their room behind them and he blinked in wonder. "You only requested one room?"

She quirked a delicate brow at him. "Is that unsatisfactory? Should we get in another of our inevitable moods, there is a room across the hall. I'm sure Mralki would not be opposed to receiving double fare from us."

"This is fine," Vilkas affirmed, "I was merely surprised that you only asked for one room without any prompting from me."

"A man and his wife should share a room, should they not?" she whispered quietly. She began to remove her leather greaves, peeling back her bloodstained armor. "Would you help me with this, husband?"

He moved to assist her, looking with regret at her bloodied thighs. "Why did you perform such a move if you knew the scales of the beast would rip your armor?"

"I didn't know," she replied. "All dragons are different, and it's tough to tell what kind it is which until they either attack or land."

"What kind was this one?"

She smiled at him. "Your curiosity betrays you, husband. I remember when you were skeptical of the tales of my dragon slaying."

He grunted and repeated his question. To his immense surprise, she laughed. He stared at her, astonished—he had never made her laugh before.

"Did you notice, Vilkas, the bronze almost orange color of the dragon? Or perhaps the pointed arrow-tip of its tail? That marks it as an elder dragon. Its scales are evidently sharper than most, but I did what had to be done in order to kill it." She gave him a knowing glance suddenly. "If magic makes you uncomfortable, husband, I suggest you ask Mralki for a bottle of mead while I heal myself. Won't be long, and I shall join you when I have finished and changed."

He nodded stiffly, surprised at her level of understanding, and did as she said. The innkeeper, Mralki, was indeed eager to give him a drink and some food in exchange for the proper amount of coin. As Vilkas took a swig of mead, Mralki even offered pleasant conversation.

"How long have you two been married?" he asked with a smile.

Vilkas blinked, nearly choking on his drink. How long had it been? It felt like damned years. "Less than a month," he settled on finally.

Mralki nodded. "I figured it was relatively recent. Aveline stops in often on her travels. My son, Erik, likes to hear her adventuring tales. I am glad to see that she is finally taking the first steps towards settling down."

Vilkas returned the man's smile. He wondered briefly if Mralki was one of the people his wife had meant when she said that she was being pressured to marry.

"I don't mean to pry," Mralki continued suddenly, "but have you and she discussed the matter yet?"

"What matter?"

The other man chuckled. "Excuse my ambiguity. The matter of children, sir."

Now he did choke on his drink, spluttering like a caught fish. Children? Children with Aveline? He'd never given it a serious thought, never even let it cross his mind. Did she even want children? First things first, he thought bitterly. We have to be able to stomach touching each other or how in Oblivion will a child be conceived?

It was true he'd always wanted children, but he had assumed that when his dream of a loving wife had been crushed, so had the concept of children…

"Husband?" Aveline emerged from their room. He couldn't tell if she'd finished her healing. He could only assume, as that part of her legs was covered by the skirt of the dress she had changed into; a nightgown, though this one was white and, thankfully, opaque. "Come to bed, husband. We have to set out early tomorrow morning." A strange kind of smirk came over her face. "It's that time as well, husband. Won't you hurry?"

Vilkas felt his blood rushing to his cheeks in a fierce embarrassment. He cleared his throat but didn't miss the twitch of her eyebrow. Did she just…make a joke?

Follow along, her expression said. It was the same face she'd had on when she'd talked her way out of a hostage situation when a bandit group that had caught her, Vilkas, and Farkas off guard once. He saw what she was getting at and mumbled, "Musn't talk about such private matters, Aveline."

She seemed pleased with his performance as Mralki chuckled, and Vilkas stood from his barstool to follow her to their room. "Why did you do that?" he asked once the door was closed.

She held a knowing smile. "Mralki was badgering you, wasn't he? He always does that with my male travel companions. He must have been doing a jig behind the counter when he realized I had finally married someone."

As she began to change, she added offhandedly, "Though I wonder if Erik will be angry when his father tells him. Erik has always been too fond of me, but he's a boy. He shall recover."

For some reason that was evading him, her casual statement bothered him. He had seen the "boy" in question, Erik. He was young, yes, but surely no more than a year or two below Vilkas himself. Did she also think him a boy? Had she thought that in her plans to propose? Had her justification for stealing away his happiness been merely that he would "recover"? He bit down harshly on the inside of his cheek, struggling to maintain a calm—he had no desire to give Mralki double inn fare for a room separate from her. Plus, wouldn't that cement her opinion that he was childish, if indeed that was her opinion? No, he would prove to her that he could be mature about this situation. She would not elicit such a reaction from him this night.

He nearly sighed. And they had been getting along so well up to this point, too.

"Something wrong, husband?" She was fixing her hair, braiding it loosely, frowning when her nimble fingers felt that it was misbehaving. "Do you know how to braid?"

He grunted in response to both questions. He knew very well that she was aware that he knew how to braid. He had been forced to do it many a time for Aela in particular, because his hands were smaller than the other Companions; and because Aela didn't trust the other girls with her hair and she was not able to braid her own. He had been mocked for it, publicly in the mead hall, by Torvar and Njada.

"You cannot manage yourself?" he asked. He had seen her braid her own hair and knew that she was quite capable. She let out a huff, however, as she combed her fingers through her work, undoing it.

"It's not listening to me," she muttered somewhat sourly. "The curls are too wild tonight. I could do with a defter pair of hands with the ability to see their work."

"Do you not own a mirror?" Despite his comment, he stepped forward to where she sat on the edge of the bed. "You will need to turn around."

Her eyes seemed to be laughing at him. "Your legs are longer than my own, husband. Surely it makes more sense for you to simply sit behind me."

There was silence for a moment as he stared her down. What was she playing at? A muscle in his arm twitched as he grumbled his assent. She moved closer to the edge of the bed, her dress bunching up near her thighs, and he sat behind her, his legs on either side of her body. The whole seating arrangement became quite uncomfortable for him as a certain part of him stirred to life as he came in contact with her soft skin. If she had been any other woman, he would have run his hands up and down her silky white legs, then promptly flipped and ravished her. He gritted his teeth at the tightening in his trousers, but if she felt anything against the small of her back, she gave no hint of it.

He ran his fingers through her hair experimentally. It was softer than her skin, if that was even possible, and free of tangles. He knew her rituals from her years with the Companions and knew that she brushed it almost obsessively every night. She must have done it tonight before coming to get him.

I wonder if it's another of her mother's teachings, he thought, remembering what she had said the night she cut her hand on the shield.

She was right when she said the curls were too wild. Her hair stuck out in numerous places no matter how he smoothed it, so finally he shrugged in defeat and braided it as best he could. She was relaxed and malleable before him, staying still even when his fingers brushed against the back of her neck.

"Thank you," she said quietly when he had finished and tied the ends with the ribbon she handed him.

He removed himself from her personal space with a lurch, and something in her body tightened. "Do you loathe me so much?" she whispered.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" he snapped rashly, feeling increasingly childish especially in the face of her mature demeanor. "You tricked me, you roped me into this farce of a marriage—" She stood from the bed and he bit his tongue. This trip would be hell if he allowed her to anger him. He had been doing so well, but she was just so damned irritating.

Her hand was on the door when he overcame a bit of his pride. "Where are you going?" he demanded.

"For some air," she answered simply. She did not turn to face him. "Perhaps it would be best if you got some sleep, Vilkas. We have a long walk tomorrow."

He didn't want her to leave now, to escape into the night air, because if she did that would mean the end of any progress they had begun to make. "Stay." He nearly flinched, hating how his forceful statement sounded almost like a plea.

She froze, shoulders tensing, with the doorknob half turned. When she didn't move or voice any response to him, he slammed his hand down on the bed. "Damn it, Aveline!"

"I will return before dawn," she stated then. Her voice was calm and her tone was harsh. "Sleep, husband. I expect you will not be quite so...ill-tempered after a night's rest."

She vanished from the room, the wooden door creaking softly as it closed.

Why did their nights together always seem to end like this? He pondered that thought, throwing himself forcefully backwards against the sheets and expelling his anger in a sigh. He really needed to get a better grip on himself. Kodlak would have been ashamed at his lack of self control. All of that training to quell the beast, and he was more violently raging now than he ever did as a wolf—with the exception, perhaps, of the earliest days of his transformation. He sighed heavily yet again as he began to reminisce about his father figure and, by extension, the earliest days of his acquaintance with the Dragonborn.

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A/N: This should tide everyone over for a while! Next chapter will contain more of Vilkas' thoughts on his "wife". I'd love your thoughts!


	5. Walk Ahead

A/N: Brief look into the past!

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_The rumors had been flitting about for months since the attack at Helgen. Both sides of the war were alight with gossip about the legendary Dragonborn, but reports were hazy and exaggerated at best. There were whispers that the warrior was staying in Riverwood, but the only newcomer to the small village was a demure Breton woman staying with the village's blacksmith, and the theory among most was that the Dragonborn had to already be at High Hrothgar. Some claimed seeing him, for it was surely a him, slicing the dragon's head from his neck with a sword of gold as Helgen burned. It was unfounded, as Helgen was sealed and none dared enter, and no one knew for a fact of any survivors. Those who claimed to be were later found to be frauds, but if there was one thing the rumors agreed on, it was that the Dragonborn was a strong, Nordic man._

_How wrong they all had been._

_Vilkas knew the falsehood of the rumors, but he never realized the true extent until a beautiful woman dressed in damaged leather armor stepped into Jorrvaskr. It was storming outside, late in the day, and she was soaked with rainwater. She entered the room with a commanding grace despite holding the look of a drowned rat, and her beauty radiated through the worthless armor. She was stunning, and at first he stared at her openly. A greatsword was strapped to her back, and he ran his eyes over it with an appraising air. He doubted her small frame could lift such a sword. She probably weighed less at that moment, soaking wet, than that sword. It was, however, impressive enough that she managed to stand straight-backed with it on her form._

_He saw the hint of a smile on Kodlak's lips as he took in the look of the woman. She stared him down for a long moment, nothing passing between the two, and Vilkas began to get antsy. Then Kodlak nodded and said, "Alright."_

_"Alright?" repeated Vilkas incredulously. "Alright to what?"_

_"This young lady would like to join us. Is that right?"_

_The woman bowed shallowly, eyes never leaving the Harbinger's. He nodded again, and when Vilkas began to voice his concern about this nobody who had wandered into their midst, Kodlak lifted a hand. "Sometimes the famous come to us. Sometimes men and women come to us to seek their fame. It makes no difference. What matters is their heart."_

_The two shared an almost conspiratorial look, observed by Vilkas' narrowing gaze. He stared again at the sword on her back. "And their arm," he quipped._

_Her eyes shot to him, recognizing immediately he would not be as accepting as his leader, as Kodlak offered Vilkas a small smile. "Of course," he said. "How are you in battle, girl?"_

_She shifted her stance, feet slightly apart. "I believe you will find my skills beneficial to the Companions." The first words she had spoken, and Vilkas could hear no arrogance behind them. He bristled nonetheless. "I have trained in the art of smithing, dual and two-handed weaponry, and have begun training in the arcane arts."_

_"Smithing, you say," said Kodlak._

_"Eorlund Grey-Mane is our smith." Vilkas spoke shortly. "Do not kid yourself in thinking you can replace him."_

_"I don't wish to replace anyone, merely to be of use." The two exchanged more glances, and Kodlak again had to interrupt._

_"The blade on your back," he said. "Did you smith that?"_

_She nodded, turning her gaze back to the older man._

_"Seems to be a sturdy blade. Vilkas, here, will test your skills with it—"_

_Vilkas stood from his chair before Kodlak finished._

_"—tomorrow when the storm has subsided."_

_The click of Vilkas' jaw as his teeth clenched was audible. Kodlak ignored it and continued, "Find Tilma, she will lead you to a clean change of clothes and a warm bed. Something to note as well, girl: if you are to be a Companion, you will need better armor."_

_The woman offered him a smile and left their presence, leaving Vilkas to stare in disbelief at his Harbinger._

_Kodlak, it seemed, had seen a fire within her that she kept very well hidden—when it was revealed that she was the Dragonborn, he had been the only one unphased. Her spar against Vilkas had been surprising only in the fact that she was able to lift the sword at all. She held it as though holding aloft a twig, and the knowledge that she was a legendary warrior had later made that an easier pill to swallow._

Vilkas placed his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. When she had joined the Companions, she was still new to Skyrim as a land. She had never told her story, no matter how many times Farkas had asked. She would always smile at him and tell him it was a tale for another time. Her personality was largely the same, with a few curious and confusing evolutions, but now she had the world experience and blood on her sword to add substance to her airs. She had grown during the time with their group, as part of their family, and Vilkas found himself wondering again how old she was.

_I should go look for her_, he thought, sitting upright. There, however, he paused. To what end? There were any number of places she could have gone. What would he say once he found her? Besides that, there was a large chance that things would only grow worse if he were to interact with her too soon. _No,_ he thought as he removed his armor and sank back into the bed. _I will speak to her in the morning._

* * *

He awoke to the raven-haired woman packing their items, clothed in repaired leather armor. He felt groggy as he stretched, realizing he had not slept as deeply as he had wished to.

"Good, you're up," she said, strapping her greatsword's sheath to her back with a series of leather straps and buckles. The sword was, he had to admit, a fine piece of craftsmanship. It was engraved with words in a language he didn't understand—Dragon language, he had heard her say once—and made of steel-reinforced silver. The blade shone and had yet to lose its sharp edge, and it glowed with a faintly purple aura as a sign that she had enchanted it. She'd made improvements to her Companion armor as well, so that it suited her more. She preferred leather above any kind of fur or metal form of protection, stating simply that leather was easier to maneuver in. It never seemed detrimental to her to be swift instead of heavily protected.

"Come, get dressed," she continued. "I've procured some horses, it will shorten our journey to Solitude. We wouldn't want to keep Tullius waiting."

He was curious about the horses—Rorikstead didn't have a stable horses could be rented from, and he doubted she would take a horse from any of the village's farming folk. She must have known the path his thoughts were taking, because she said quietly, "There's a Stormcloak encampment not far to the west. I...relieved them of two equines. They will not be missed until we are too far north for it to make a difference."

"Won't that return negatively on the villagers here?" Vilkas frowned.

She offered a small smile at his concern and shook her head. "There is a Forsworn camp not far from where the Stormcloaks have set up, just slightly southwest of them, and I remember talk of a giant's camp in the area as well. The rebels wouldn't first assume that the residents of such a small, harmless village would sneak into their camp to steal."

He accepted her reasoning, watching her carefully as they bid farewell to Mralki—who shot Vilkas a wink—and mounted their respective horses. She stroked the neck of hers, a bay mare, and whispered to it. Her horse whinnied as if in response, and Vilkas looked down at the black horse he rode.

"Do you like animals?" he asked.

She shrugged, an easy loose grip on the reins. "These horses were taken from the masters they were used to. Some reassurance never hurts."

"Reassurance of what?"

Her eyes turned strange, almost cloudy, as she said, "That their new masters will be kind to them."

The remainder of the day passed in silence. The tension grew within Vilkas the longer she remained quiet, until he began fishing for something, _anything_, to say.

"The meeting with General Tullius," Vilkas said, shattering the silence with an attempt at pleasant conversation. "What does it concern?"

Her features hardened and she gave him a sidelong glance. "Not you, husband."

He growled, low and dangerous. "I am accompanying you, am I not?"

"You will not be present for the meeting, Vilkas. Tullius will not allow it." She exhaled slowly. "He wasn't explicit, but even a child could guess what he wants. He wishes for me to assist with the war effort, I'm sure. He always has, from the first days of my awakening as the Dragonborn. He wants me on his side."

Vilkas raised an eyebrow in skepticality. "Surely he doesn't believe you'll join the Stormcloaks."

She actually laughed at that and shook her head, replying, "No, no, he's not that dim. He knows that, if nothing else, my heritage and race will prevent me from joining Ulfric's forces. No, he merely wants an end to my neutrality now that Alduin is gone and my primary task has been sated."

He shot her a wry smile. "Vignar will not be happy if you agree to join Tullius."

"Vignar Grey-Mane is an ancient, tradition-driven bigot," she snapped in an uncharacteristic burst of rage. She lifted a hand from the reins of her horse and rubbed the furrow from between her brows. "He will never be happy so long as I am Harbinger. This decision is not to be made lightly, and I certainly will not make it in a foolish attempt at winning his favor."

Vilkas was silent at that, racking his brain as he tried to imagine what it would be like if his wife were to go to war. Would she expect him to join her? Surely she did not—he was a Nord, and if he were to join any side in the war, the Imperial Army would not be the side to gain his support. Kodlak had not supported choosing a side in the war, preferring to keep the Companions neutral as a whole despite Vignar and the other Grey-Manes in Whiterun. Whatever decision Aveline made could possibly divide the Companions. Athis would join her, if she asked, as would Ria. Those loyal to Kodlak's memory, namely Aela and Farkas, would follow their Harbinger regardless of personal beliefs, but Njada, Vignar, Torvar...He tried not to think of it. She hadn't decided yet. No use worrying pointlessly.

They made fast time with the horses as Aveline had predicted, reaching Dragon Bridge by twilight. They stayed there overnight in the Four Shields Tavern, where Aveline surprised him by not only asking for one room, but also by stopping to gossip with Faida. He lifted his eyebrows at her but she waved him away, as if impatient for him to leave. She barely spoke to him, treating him as if they were strangers, and he viewed the whole thing with an immense amount of discomfort, especially when she again left the room for "a walk" and only reappeared the next morning.

He barely recalled the remaining journey to Solitude. It was still early in the day when they arrived and Aveline passed care of their stolen horses to the stablemaster, whom she addressed as Geinmund. She walked with a purpose into the city, eyes glowing so fiercely with strength that people took a physical step back as she passed them. His long legs allowed him to keep up with her pace if he wished, but—as he noticed with a flash of anger—he felt uncomfortable walking by her side. He had walked beside her many times as her second in command, had been at her right hand since the first day of her time as Harbinger. In fact, in her earliest days with the Companions, when she was still a whelp, a new blood, she had trailed behind him. When had she gotten so far ahead of him? How had he not noticed it happening?

_She's the Dragonborn_, a voice in his head whispered. _Of course she's ahead of you. She'll always be ahead of you._

She never had been before. What had changed?

He remembered a time in the mead hall, around the fire pit after his brother had officially toasted her into the Companions, when he had boasted of killing one of everything in Skyrim and that he was considering a venture to Cyrodiil. That was before they'd known of her legendary status—that knowledge hadn't come to light until they had welcomed her into the Circle—and Aveline had smiled in a way that intrigued him. The mischievous curl of her sultry lips had shot electricity down his spine, but she had simply sipped her drink. He had never felt sillier than when it was revealed the beautiful woman had taken down not just one, but several dragons.

Whispers broke out as she stepped into Castle Dour, the outpost to the Imperial Legion, and Vilkas snapped to his senses, speeding up until he was again at her right hand. She shot him a sidelong glance but he stared steadfastly forward. _I am her equal,_ he urged himself. _Dragonborn or not._

_I am her equal._

* * *

A/N: I'd really appreciate some more feedback! Please and thank you!


	6. Her Equal

A/N: I'd like to again thank all of you for reviewing, especially those of you who take your time to leave me a large paragraph. I hope to continue to live up to your expectations!

In a way, this is the chapter you've all been asking for. I won't spoil it; you'll just have to read!

* * *

_I am her equal._

The soldiers' boring, pestering eyes were beginning to make his skin itch. If Aveline noticed the open stares and mumbling lips, she paid them no mind. In fact, she even gave a curt nod to a female soldier—who was gaping in blatant disbelief—and addressed the woman as, "Legate Rikke."

Rikke snapped to attention, her jaw closing as her brows drew together in a bristling manner, and Vilkas could have sworn the expression on Aveline's face could be described as smug. He noticed his pace was beginning to lag behind hers again, but before he could think of catching up, she had stopped. She reached behind her to her greatsword, placing her hand on the hilt and tilting her body at an angle in a slight bow. She dipped her head and said, "Dragonborn present, reporting for duty."

Vilkas frowned at the statement and at the curiously pleasant way she said it. That just didn't make any—

"Aveline?"

The man to whom she was bowing was a sturdy, strong-built young man in Legion armor, though he displayed no visible rank as Rikke. Vilkas watched Aveline's face soften into a look she had never even given Farkas as she straightened her shoulders and allowed her lips to curl in response to the man.

"Hadvar." There was so much fondness in her voice, fondness he hadn't deemed her capable of.

The man embraced her, breathing deeply into her shoulder. "It's so good to see you again."

"Indeed, friend."

He pulled back, touching his hand to her cheek, and a strange wave of possessiveness nearly drowned Vilkas. "Your letters have barely appeased me. Not a day went by when I wasn't worried for you."

"And I for you." She was _smiling_._ By the Divines, the damn woman never smiled like that!_ "It's good to see you are well and have survived your many battles unharmed."

"Did you doubt my skill with a blade, Aveline?" he joked. She laughed and Vilkas grinded his teeth. _What the fuck was going on?!_ "Have you come to discuss the war with General Tullius?"

"In a manner of speaking." Her eyes had never left his, and Vilkas could take no more; he cleared his throat loudly and her green orbs focused on him. "Oh, Hadvar, I apologize. This is—"

But the other man's face had evened out into one of regret while she spoke. "So it's true then."

What? thought Vilkas.

"I was hoping to hear it from your lips," Hadvar continued with a sigh. "There have been rumors of the Dragonborn's marriage to a Companion from Whiterun. You had failed to mention it in your letters, so I believed it to be a false report. Now I can see it is true."

Her lips thinned, pressed together with all traces of a smile erased. "Hadvar—"

"You may not wear your ring, Aveline, perhaps hoping to hide it from me despite the fact that he accompanies you, but your husband makes it obvious."

Vilkas was reeling. This man was the only man whom Aveline had ever allowed to interrupt her, and it was boggling his mind the way he spoke to her. _Wait, she's not wearing her ring?_ Vilkas glared down at her hand as she threw a dirty glance his way as if blaming him for something.

"Come with me," continued Hadvar, "and I will bring you to General Tullius." He gave Aveline a long look, his face falling slightly though his tone was suddenly firm. "Afterwards, I wish to speak with you alone."

Vilkas bristled and she herself looked about to decline, looking as if she'd rather face Alduin again, but Hadvar dropped his voice an octave lower and said, "You owe me this at least, Aveline."

Vilkas watched the exchange with a quirked eyebrow, struggling to control his emotions. She owed him? For what? Why was she allowing this Hadvar to get away with so much?

He led them into the Castle to General Tullius' strategy room and left stiffly, informing them that the general was in a meeting and would be in momentarily. Aveline scrutinized the map on the table, noticing the placement of enemy and ally camps, while Vilkas crossed his arms and waited.

Patience had never been his strong suit.

"What in Oblivion was that?" he demanded.

"What?" came her terse reply. She was studying the map too closely, too intently; she was making it obvious that she was ignoring him.

"Don't play dumb, Aveline, it doesn't suit you," he snapped, grabbing her arm and forcing her to look at him. "What is going on with you and that soldier?"

"Nothing is 'going on', Vilkas, and I resent your accusation." She tried to pull from his grip, but she wasn't getting away from him without answering his question, not this time.

"You haven't answered a question in days." He kept a firm hold on her. "Answer this one. I'm cashing in. You made a deal."

"He's my friend, now release me."

Desperation tipped the tone of his voice. "There's more to it than that, Aveline, don't _lie_ to me!"

"Fine!" She pinched the bridge of her nose, breathing deeply. "Do you remember when you asked why I married you? I told you of a man, one particular man, who wouldn't rest in his declarations?" He eyed her warily as her gaze trailed slowly to the door Hadvar had vacated. "He is that man."

"He..." Vilkas blanched. "What?"

"Lift your jaw, you buffoon," she spat. "Is it so difficult to fathom that I am capable of being loved?"

"It must be, even to you, since you rejected him by marrying someone else." His tone was flat, but her eyes widened slightly. "Why didn't you tell him in your letters? Why didn't you wear your ring? If you really wanted to set him straight, you shouldn't have been hiding it."

"I didn't want him to confront me with it," she murmured. "I've already caused him so much pain."

"So you thought it would be better for him to hear it from gossip than from your own lips?" Vilkas scoffed. "He doesn't seem to be that important to you if you can't even be honest with him."

Her eyes narrowed at him into near-slits. "How dare you judge me. What do you know about it? What could you possibly understand? You know_ nothing_."

"Because you never tell me anything!"

"I don't tell you because you couldn't _fathom_ the pain, the _guilt_," she hissed. "He saved my life and this is the repayment I give him. I am continually the source of his displeasure."

"If you really felt that guilty, why didn't you marry _him_ instead? You seem to have no qualms against marrying someone you don't love." He regretted the words as soon as he saw her reaction. Her entire body jerked as if he had struck her.

"I would ruin him," she whispered. "I don't deserve him, his charity, his friendship, or his kindness. If I had married him, I would have lost everything. I would have ruined him, Vilkas, but I don't pretend it was an entirely selfless act: I wanted to keep him now, exactly as he is. Even though I don't deserve it, I couldn't stand to lose him."

She truly cared for that other man—he dropped his hand from her, feeling suddenly disgusted by the touch of her soft skin. She had cared so much for Hadvar that she had done what she believed would preserve him, but she had had no reservations about ruining _Vilkas'_ happiness. Ruining_ Vilkas_ hadn't been a concern. His feelings or well-being had never crossed her mind, and his next words flowed angrily from his mouth before he could stop them.

"I hadn't realized you were capable of being so _stupid_."

"I think you've said quite enough." Her voice was dead, devoid of all emotion, but after a couple of seconds, he registered that his right cheek had begun to sting. The bitch had slapped him! "If you can't grow up in the next five minutes, Vilkas, I suggest you head back to Whiterun." She turned her back on him, looking back to the map. "I don't have time to babysit."

Her words struck him to his core. "I'll wait outside then," he growled. "I'm sorry that your _husband_ is such a _burden_ to you." He stormed out, slamming the door behind him with such force that he heard the wood splinter.

* * *

_She had been Harbinger for over a year when she disappeared. There had been no warning, no note, no word. She simply vanished overnight. Her room was neat and vacated, looking as if no one had lived there since Kodlak's passing. While Farkas voiced concern for her, worried about everything from her being kidnapped to someone chasing her away, Vilkas had cursed her. She had done something unforgivable, abandoned those who needed her most, and he had hated her for it. He raged for days about her blatant disregard for the people who relied on her. He took over her duties and for a month he wished a terrible fate upon her._

_She returned to them three days ahead of the bards' songs. She entered Jorrvaskr with a limp and a blank expression. Fragmented armor hung off of her in strips, her Companion's shield had a large claw mark through its middle, and across her body from shoulder to hip was a long, diagonal slice that took months of advanced healing magic to prevent from scarring. Her voice was so hoarse and damaged she couldn't speak for an additional two weeks. Aela peppered her with questions, Farkas nearly howled at the terrible state of her injuries, but she had walked right up to Vilkas and stabbed her sword into the floor at his feet. It dripped with blood so dark a red it was nearly black, puddling on the wood. He had never seen human blood so dark, and his mind murmured that it wasn't human blood._

_She had stared at him then, daring him to say something to her, to denounce her. He swept his gaze from the sword to her determined face. Her eyes shone fiercely despite the paleness of her cheeks, and something in him had bent._

_"Rest now," he said, voice deep and rumbling. "You will owe me—owe all of us—an explanation when you have recovered. For now, focus on healing."_

_She let her fingers curl around the hilt of her sword, and he had noticed then that her hands were shaking. He covered her hand with his own, dwarfing it, and added, "That was not a suggestion, Harbinger."_

_Her eyes had flashed with something akin to relief, and she had left the sword and allowed Farkas to dote on her while Aela called a healer. The sword had remained there until she was fully healed, in the center of Jorrvaskr's main hall, covered—as he would learn later—with Alduin's blood. Even once the sword was removed, a deep stain remained on the wood where the blood had been._

_She never spoke of defeating the World Eater. When Farkas finally voiced what they were all thinking and asked her point-blank, she retreated to her room without a word and remained there for three days. They were forced to be satisfied with their imaginations and the terrible songs that followed, and Vilkas began to realize there was a lot she was never going to tell them._

* * *

Vilkas sighed and rubbed his temples. He could feel a headache edging its way behind his eyes. He had never understood how Farkas could be so easy with the woman. She was infuriating. She hid everything, was never honest with them, didn't trust them enough to even offer an explanation. That hadn't been the first time she'd vanished, but it had been the longest. She would leave occasionally, returning and saying simply she had done something for "a friend". For being probably the most antisocial person Vilkas had ever met, she certainly did a lot of favors for friends he'd never seen.

It wasn't that he wasn't trying. Oh, how he'd tried in four years to be kind to her. They had had their moments of camaraderie, of brief understanding, but they were few and far between and only became even more so after the defeat of Alduin. He had grumbled his concerns once at the mead hall over dinner, while she was off Divines knew where. He had meant for only his brother to hear, but from across the table Aela had slammed her tankard down.

"We can't know what she goes through," Aela hissed. "Have you seen the letters she gets on a daily basis? They're full of requests, of people and groups and factions begging for her help all over Skyrim."

"She hides everything from us, Aela, how can you trust her?" Vilkas growled.

"Do you trust her to watch your back in battle?"

"Of course, but—"

"Do you trust Kodlak's judgement?"

"Without question—"

"He assigned her to be our Harbinger." Aela's gaze was hard. "She has never once failed us in the field and she has never failed us as a leader. There is no reason not to trust her. She has her reasons for not involving us in everything she experiences."

He had stared at her in disbelief, but the longer he thought about it now, staring at the sky as clouds passed, the more sense it made. Had it been a mistake of him to try and push her? She wasn't emotionless—the last few weeks had proved that if nothing else. She had shown she was willing to compromise, willing to try and improve his situation. Maybe, just maybe, _he_ was the reason all they did was argue.

_I'll have to apologize_, he thought. The very idea made him cringe, his pride aching within his chest, but for the sake of his potential future happiness, it had to be done.

* * *

"Do not forget, Tullius, I don't just make decisions for myself anymore. I have a responsibility to uphold the wishes and ideals of the Companions."

"Yes of course, Dragonborn. I understand." The sky was beginning to darken. Vilkas watched from the bench of Castle Dour courtyard as Tullius shook the young woman's hand. "Proudspire Manor has been made ready for you, as always on your visits."

"Thank you. I will stay for a few days before returning to Whiterun. Once I have returned, expect your answer within the week. I will send word."

Vilkas stood as she approached, but she breezed past him and down the stairs out of Castle Dour. His face formed an immediate, reactionary scowl, but he forced it away. He had calmed down considerably while she was having her war meeting, and after reflecting on their fight, he'd realized that a good portion of it—okay, _most_ of it—had been his fault. He really needed to control his temper around her, or they'd never be civil.

"Aveline," he called. She ignored him and he nearly rolled his eyes at her own immaturity. "For Shor's sake, Aveline, I'm trying to apologize."

She stopped short, causing him to nearly crash into her, but she stepped nimbly out of the way. "Why do I find that hard to believe?"

"Look," he ran a hand through his hair, "I'm not the best with self-control and you seem to have a knack for pulling the worst from me, but I am only saying this once: our...exchange in Tullius' office was largely my fault. You're right that I don't understand your feelings—" _Or that you're even capable of feelings._ "—and for that I apologize."

She seemed to be soaking it in, and suddenly she deflated. She rolled her shoulders delicately and said, "It was hellish, Vilkas, he blathered for _hours_ on where my duty should lie now that Alduin is vanquished."

He stared at her. Was she just going to ignore his apology? There was a glint in her eye, however, and when she spoke next he realized that had actually been her way of accepting it. "I apologize as well."

"Did I hear you right?" he joked lamely after a few solid minutes of silence.

She glared at him and began walking again, feet pointed toward Proudspire Manor. "I will not say it again."

He suddenly barked out a short laugh and jogged slightly so that he was at her side. She looked sideways at him again just as she had the first time, but this time he noticed they were walking just the smallest bit closer to one another. He glanced up at the sky, at the passing clouds which had been tinged grey with an oncoming storm. It wasn't much, he supposed, but it was a start.

* * *

A/N: Well? Did you anticipate that it was him who Aveline was avoiding? Or for that matter, did you anticipate her reason _why_? I'd love some feedback!


	7. Trouble

Vilkas was caught off guard by the exquisite nature of the manor, and he suddenly felt very foolish for being so blindly proud of Breezehome. He wondered if he had even impressed her just a little by buying that small home.

She seemed to sense his thoughts as she stripped herself of her armor and laid her sword on the grand dining table. "It's spacious," she said, "but sometimes I find myself craving something cozier."

Something within him swelled; she was trying to ease his mind. However, a pressing matter was gnawing at him, and as much as he was worried it would make her defensive so soon after they had made up, it had to be addressed.

"Hadvar," he said, watching her tense. "When will you speak with him?"

"He...expressed a wish to stop by tomorrow morning," she replied. "Let's talk no more of that, hm?" When he didn't answer, she added in a lower voice, "Please."

"Alright." He walked up behind her, surprising her with his closeness. "You've been favoring your left side recently when you handle things. Is your right arm giving you trouble? Was it injured in the fight with the dragon?"

"No, I'm fine," she assured him. She rolled her shoulders again. "My muscles are just...overworked."

She had barely finished her sentence before his large hands found the dip in her shoulders where they seemed to fit almost perfectly. Her breath hitched in shock and she asked, "What are you doing?"

He didn't bother to address the question; the Companions would, if the occasion demanded it, give their shield-siblings a muscle rub or massage to ease the tension of a long day of battle. This was no different. At least, that's what he reminded himself when she leaned back, boneless against him.

"Is this an extension of your apology?" Her voice held an amused lilt to it.

"If I say yes, will you stop talking?" he said, surprised at the roughness in his own voice.

She laughed lightly, and he continued. He focused the attention on her right side, feeling the knots in her muscles begin to loosen beneath his palms. Her skin was cool to his touch and her hair brushed against his chin. She released a heavy sigh of contentment, and he grew bolder as he bent his head and whispered in her ear, "This would work better if you were lying down."

She moved out from under his hands, turning to face him. As she stared into his eyes—something she'd only ever done the night of their wedding, he realized—he was overcome with a strange desire. Not to bed her, necessarily, though that urge had indeed always been there; no, a desire for something much more emotional. Something more inherently true.

He tried to shake it from his mind and instead, he found himself tilting his head down to kiss her. The kiss was sweet, brief, and sparked him like static shock at first contact. His fingers curled lightly around her chin when she moved to pull away. He wanted nothing more than for her to yield, for this to change something, for a relationship that any normal man truly would want. Her hands settled on his broad chest, and for a brief moment he thought he'd won. Then she was pushing with those feminine hands, and twisting her head away from him, and he knew she had only given in for the brief moment that it took to gain leverage against him.

"Are your emotions toward me truly so fickle, Vilkas?" she asked quietly, touching her fingertips to her mouth. "Or does it only matter that my flesh is warm?"

He scowled at her accusation, though he tried as hard as he could not to get angry with her. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought she sounded insulted or even, by the Nine, _hurt_ by his action.

"That's not why I did it," he blurted, brows drawn together. _Very eloquent, old boy, you're a regular silver-tongued devil._

"Then why?" she demanded. Her shoulders were strong, and he could practically see the tense knots in her muscles reforming as she stiffened her posture. "A few hours ago we were more cruel to each other than the most barbaric of creatures."

"And I regret what I said to you then." He sighed. "Is it so hard for you to believe that I wish for this relationship to work out? I do, Aveline, I wish for a happy marriage more than I think I've wished for anything." Vilkas chuckled, eyes darkening slightly. "I think I've even wished for it more than I wished for a cure for my previous...state."

At this confession, her eyes widened. "Is that...so."

"Aye." He stepped towards her, arms open in a sign of surrender. "I'm done holding my grudge against you, Aveline. I've reached a decision. There is no getting around it: we are married. We will be together for the rest of our lives. We may not have gotten along as Harbinger and second, but we worked together as partners nonetheless. Let us at least attempt to translate that partnership into our marriage, before we give up on happiness completely. I am willing to try." _Before I resign myself to my fate, allow me this chance to change it, to aim for the thing I want from my life._

"Perhaps we ought to start small, then," she responded hesitantly. She was watching his face carefully as if he were a caged animal and would lash out at the slightest prompting. He nearly winced. Not that he could blame her—that had certainly been his quick reaction lately.

"Small, wife?" He forced an easy-going smirk. "You were the one throwing yourself at me so early into our sham of a marriage." _Nice attempt at a joke, calling your wife a shameless hussy. Great way to kick off the new attempt at getting along._

"Yes, small," she snapped. "Perhaps we ought to start with the descriptive terms you use in regards to our union."

Now he really did wince. "Yes," he coughed, "you're right, that would probably be best."

An awkward, strained silence filled the space between them. His gaze drifted down to her hand and his lungs tightened uncomfortably at the lack of wedding band on her finger.

"Why do you never wear it?" he asked, his voice more vulnerable than he intended._ Is she ashamed that she stooped so low in her marriage, "scraped the bottom of the barrel" in a sense? Is it because she intends to be unfaithful and she won't have to answer as many questions if she doesn't wear it?_ "It isn't purely to hide it from the soldier."

"I wear it." Her response was quick, almost defensive, and his eyes flashed to her face.

"Don't lie to me." He held none of the malice or hiss that he had earlier that day. "Jarl Balgruuf appeared at our door after you left to come to Solitude. He was...surprised to hear of your marriage to me. He told me himself that you don't wear his ring in his presence."

"I wear it," she repeated, albeit quieter than before. "You've seen me wear it. I just wear it...selectively."

She bit gently into her plump lower lip, taking it between her teeth in a thoughtful gesture he knew well. She made this same face when she was contemplating her duties as Harbinger.

"It's not what you probably think," she murmured, looking down at her finger. "The rings...Maramal provided them, as I'm sure you know. He provides most all wedding bands for couples. Tradition of Mara and all that. However..." She looked to his ring now. "I feel they're too...generic. It says nothing of us, which I know means little on its own due to the nature of our marriage. That said, the rings mean nothing, symbolize nothing, not to me. There are hundreds of pairs of gold bands just like these. Why wear it when you're not around for others to see my union is to you? What's to stop it from meaning I've married the fish merchant down the street with the same gold band?"

He felt an odd, displacing sense of relief at her words, though his concerns plagued him still. Some of his insecurities had smoothed over the longer she spoke, and he found himself nodding with her voice. "I understand," he said. Indeed, he could see her point in all of it. The bands were simple, generic, universal, _common_. He could see where the appeal and subsequent connection would be lost.

"It is growing late," she said, turning away from him. "Allow me a moment to change and I shall make our dinner."

"Aveline—"

"Tonight, if you would like, husband," her eyes seemed to shine like jewels, multi-faceted in the dim manor lighting as the moon lifted itself into the sky, "we could perhaps try sharing a bed."

* * *

Vilkas' body was strung tighter than a bow string. Every one of his nerve endings was on fire, and sleep wasn't going to come easy. He was too much on edge. How could she rest so peacefully? He was staring stubbornly at the ceiling, but his gaze continually slid to her slender form beside him. Her hair hung around her face in an unrealistic, messy perfection. Her face was calm, lips curved in a slight smile. Her breasts rose and fell with her breathing. One hand was tucked beneath the pillow, the other lightly curled on the sheet. She looked oddly fragile.

He rolled onto his side, the tug inside him urging him to touch her. This pull towards her had only gotten stronger the longer he fought against her. He didn't want to feel like this, not when it was so obviously one-sided. He would only hurt and embarrass himself.

He reached out tentatively, allowing his fingertips to ghost up her side, along her arm, the angle of her jawline. He sighed. What had she done to him?

His fingertips dragged back down and started their trail anew, brushing her skin. They swept across her bare shoulder, and the sleeve of her nightgown slipped away from her skin completely. He inhaled sharply._ I'm in trouble,_ he thought, the pad of his finger trailing over her jawline again. His thumb touched her lower lip and her mouth parted slightly. He had to contain a groan._ Deep trouble._

She moved closer to his warmth and he hesitated before allowing his hand to rest on her shapely hip. She was the wrong woman for him, and he knew that, but it was easiest to pretend when she was like this. They could potentially get along well, could be a great team as husband and wife, but she didn't love him, and he...well, he didn't know how to feel about her. If he gave in and allowed himself to feel any connection to her at all, really, she would destroy him. He threw himself to his other side, the bed shaking slightly, and pulled as far away from her tempting body as the edge of the bed would allow.

* * *

He must have dozed off at some point, because when he next opened his eyes it was early morning and he was alone. He looked to the empty half of the bed and stifled a sigh. If this was how those barmaids had felt in the mornings after, he regretted every one night stand._ And I haven't even slept with her._

He was tense, stressed, at the end of his emotional rope; a small voice in the back of his mind whispered, _You could use a good tumble between the sheets._ A life of celibacy was not a life for Vilkas. However, his honor meant more to him than his sex life, and he would continue to be faithful.

_Not if she keeps sleeping beside you looking like a ripe apple that you can't quite reach._

His eyes burned with strain and those few hours of sleep he actually received. He threw the covers off of himself, moving sluggishly as he dressed himself in civilian clothes. The bedroom door was cracked open, and as he stepped out of the room—into _another_ room, a living area that was easily the size of the master bedroom in Breezehome—he stared up at the skylight. She had appeased his mind, mentioning that she liked the cozy feel of Breezehome, but had she really meant it? He had always been a quaint man himself, dreaming of that little farmhouse, but he wasn't opposed to living in a lavish house like this. A manor.

He'd never had anything fancy, expensive, or extravagant. He had never seen the draw of being outlandishly rich—he was a strong believer that it made men complacent and useless. That said, he had felt the occasional selfish want of that particularly fine engraved greatsword, had felt the appeal of a living space larger than the single bedroom of Jorrvaskr. For years he had looked upon Breezehome as the model for his ideal home. Now, after everything he'd previously dreamed of had shattered, he suddenly wondered what it would be like for his children to want for nothing.

There it was again. Children.

Vilkas found himself wandering the second floor, moving away from the bedroom towards the only other door. The door was locked. He pulled at the handle with a frown, jiggling it a little to see if it was simply stuck. When he realized this was not the case he sighed in defeat and left it, giving it one last glance over his shoulder as he headed for the stairs.

Aveline's voice floated up to him as he reached the top of the stairway, bouncing off the stone walls. He began his slow descent down, waiting for her words to be clearer. Who was she talking to?

"Tullius isn't thrilled at the time you're taking to consider his proposition."

Vilkas' fists clenched; he recognized the voice. _That damn soldier._ He had forgotten that Hadvar was to make an appearance that morning.

"War is a dangerous thing for children to play at."

Vilkas nearly rolled his eyes at Aveline's obscure response. Honestly, the woman wasn't ancient, clearly Tullius was her elder—His thoughts were interrupted by Hadvar's boisterous laughter. Well he was _certainly_ in better spirits than he had been yesterday. Had he and Aveline already had their talk? Had she told him of her reason for marrying? Or had she lied and claimed to simply be in love with someone else?

"You speak as though Tullius is unaware of the nature of warfare." Hadvar's tone was good-natured.

"No," Aveline said. "I merely meant myself and the people I lead."

"Referring to yourself as a child? Do my ears deceive me?"

"Amusing, Hadvar. I'm quite serious. Alduin is a different beast than Ulfric—"

"You defeated Alduin."

"I cannot use the same methods to win a war, I'm afraid. Tullius says that simply knowing they are facing the Dragonborn will sliver Ulfric's forces, but I am not so hopeful. As for the Companions..."

"From what you've told me of them, they would gladly follow you into battle."

"A majority would, yes." Her voice lowered fractionally and Vilkas inched further forward. "That is what I am afraid of, Hadvar." She became very quiet, mumbling what sounded like complete gibberish—

"Aveline, you're doing it again."

"Hm? Doing what?"

"The Dragontongue, you're speaking their language again."

"I am? Forgive me. Sometimes it can feel more natural than my first language."

Vilkas crept closer, careful not to get caught but curious to hear as Hadvar's tone changed. "I understand why you didn't tell me, Aveline, really I do."

"Hadvar, I thought we'd addressed this."

"We have. It's settled, I've accepted your reasoning. I just wanted to instill this in you one last time: I would have left everything behind to be with you."

Vilkas bit the inside of his cheek harshly to keep from growling as he reached the bottom of the stairs and stalked closer to the rooms. He could now peer into the kitchen where Aveline sat with Hadvar, and he was loathe to see how closely they were seated to each other. She reached out and touched the soldier's hand, her eyes gentle.

Vilkas_ hated_ how soft her expression was.

"I know you would have," she said, "and that isn't what you deserve. You're a skilled soldier and strategist. You have the potential to take Tullius' place as general. I wouldn't want you to waste yourself, Hadvar." She moved her hand to his face, her touch light on his jaw. "Especially not on someone incapable of returning even half your affections."

"You care for me, don't you?" The man was grasping at straws. What could possibly be done now about it? She was married, to someone else, to _Vilkas_. She was _his_ wife, not the soldier's. Why was Hadvar being so adamant about her feelings?

"I care for you deeply, Hadvar, but I do not love you. You have and always will deserve more than what I would be able to give you." She dropped her hand from his face.

"I would have made you happy, Aveline. Can you honestly say you are happy now?" Hadvar continued brashly.

Vilkas watched her face from his hidden place, unwilling to hear the answer. He knew the conditions of their uneasy truce, but he knew it would still pain him should she say outright that she was unhappy with him. She took a deep breath. "If this was indeed a mistake, and the consequence is my unhappiness, I will gladly bear that weight if it secures your own contentment. Marry someone who deserves you, Hadvar."

"I love you, Aveline."

It took every ounce of his self control not to launch himself at the bold, uncouth man opposite his wife. _His_ wife. _His wife._

"Do you love him?" Hadvar asked next when she didn't respond.

Dread filled Vilkas' lungs. What would be her answer? _Would_ she answer?

"You saved my life and for that I am eternally grateful." Aveline pushed her chair backward, standing gracefully. "You will forever be someone precious to me. It pains me to no end knowing that I have hurt you in this way, but please Hadvar for both our sakes, speak no more of love."

"Very well, Aveline," murmured Hadvar in the tone of a defeated man. "If that is what you wish. I will not apologize or be ashamed of my feelings for you, but I will talk of it no longer. Will you promise me at least to pay me one last visit before you leave?"

"Of course, my friend." Aveline smiled at him, and he took her hand, placing a light kiss upon it. He held on for longer than was necessary and, before he let go, Vilkas heard Aveline whisper very distinctly, "_Dahmaan mahfaeraak_."*

Hadvar was smiling at her as she uttered the words. "You've said that to me at every parting and at the end of every letter. When will you tell me what it means?"

Aveline only smiled cryptically and said, "You will come to know it soon."

Vilkas pressed himself flat against the stone wall as she escorted the soldier out of Proudspire. With a wave, she closed the door and allowed her hand to linger on the doorknob.

"Vilkas." Her voice rang clearly through the home. "I assume Kodlak taught you better manners than to eavesdrop on unmistakably private conversations."

He flinched guiltily in the dim light and stepped out, not bothering to wonder how she had seen him. "I'm not apologizing for it."

"No," she said, her hand falling from the door. "I didn't imagine you would." She walked to the kitchen table where she and Hadvar had been sitting. Vilkas hadn't noticed the golden wedding band on its surface until she picked it up and slipped it onto her ring finger. "I'm heading for the Temple, husband. Would you care to join?"

_The Temple? The Temple of the Divines?_ Aveline was going to pray? Had he been sucked into some other world?

She didn't wait for his answer, leaving the door open as she exited, and after another moment of incredulity he jogged after her. The heavy door of the manor swung closed with a thunk behind him.

* * *

A/N: Sorry this took me so long. I know many of you are getting frustrated with Aveline but thank you for sticking with me. Her transformation must be gradual and, therefore, realistic!

*Remember forever - Dragon language


	8. Orders

"I never pegged you as the religious type," he said, breaking the silence as they walked.

"It's almost impossible to be the Dragonborn and not believe in divinity, husband." Her lip curled up and he nearly stopped dead in surprise as she directed her smile at him.

"And the Daedric Princes?" he continued. His curiosity spurred him forward. "To whom of them do you pray since we have been rid of Hircine's curse?"

"They all speak to me," she whispered. "There is a fight in Oblivion for who can claim the Dragonborn's soul when my time finally comes."

"A fight? Who's winning?"

"Not Hircine, though he still fights stubbornly on. Namira and Malacath hold an equally small claim at present. The rest are more evenly deadlocked."

He looked at her. Namira, Prince of all things repulsive, whose followers were cannibals; Malacath, the Daedric Prince of the Orcs; what of Boethiah, Prince of Plots? Mehrunes Dagon, Prince of Destruction and Revolution? Molag Bal, whose sphere was the enslavement of all mortals? Vilkas paused, ice running through his veins. Had she not mentioned them because they didn't matter? Or was her past so dark that those Princes actually had a claim on her?

For that matter, what about Sanguine? Prince of Debauchery and Passion?

What was the level of his claim? Was she truly just hiding her passion from him?

"What happens if you die before the deadlock is broken?" he asked, clearing his throat.

"It is the Dragonborn's duty and curse to split our soul between the Daedric Princes, the only mortal able to give devotion to all Daedra at the same time. Had I retained Hircine's gift, he would have had solid claim on me as I have given no part of myself to any other Daedra. I can join with none or join with all, but in the end, one will have the slightest advantage over the other and I will go to their plane."

Vilkas felt a strange ache in his chest. It had always been his desire as a Nord to go to Sovngarde after death. Where would she go? Would she remain torn between the Daedric planes for the rest of eternity if no advantage was given to one?

"Not to Sovngarde?" he asked. For some reason, the idea of her not having the option of the feasting hall seemed wrong to him. "The Dragonborn is a Nordic legend, shouldn't-"

"Do I look like a Nord to you, husband?" She touched his arm and shook her head. "No, I have seen Sovngarde; there is no place for me there."

_"I have seen Sovngarde."_

_How?_ he wondered. _Is the Dragonborn truly so magnificent?_ He wished she was more forthcoming; he'd love to know what it had been like.

"Well, where would you want to go?"

Her expression turned wistful, gentle. He blinked, thinking he was simply seeing things. "Moonshadow. I would want to be taken to Moonshadow."

Vilkas didn't know much about Moonshadow except a few whispers-supposedly, it was so beautiful it could make mortals go blind. He found himself smiling. The cold, harsh woman wanted beauty. Perhaps she was not only more kind than he thought, but also more layered than he had thought. He supposed that he was as guilty as she was for the things that were going wrong. She had never been forthcoming about herself, but then again, he had never pressed her. At the same time, it made sense to him that she would want to go to Azura's plane.

"Why did you marry me?" he asked as they reached the Temple.

"You've asked this question."

"I mean, if you believed you would ruin Hadvar, why choose me?"

She hesitated with her hand on the door, turning to search his face.

"Because in that regard, I believed at the time you were the only one strong-willed enough to be the spouse of the Dragonborn." Her response was soft.

"And now?"

She reached for him but thought better of it, her hand dropping to her side. "And now, I regret not viewing you as a human instead of a means to an end. I'm truly sorry, Vilkas, for the happiness my actions have cost you."

Vilkas kissed her. She pulled back from him to laugh, her eyes alight, and said, "You have the strangest sense of timing, husband."

He kissed her again, the softness of her lips spurring him forward. He waited for her to pull away again and was surprised to find that, instead, she placed her hands on his shoulders. He held her against him, his hand warm against the small of her back. They had a chemistry, a spark, there was no denying that-and right then, as he parted her sweet lips with his tongue and she allowed him, Vilkas wouldn't have denied her a thing. _What have you done to me, Aveline?_

"We're in public, Vilkas." She was laughing again, her voice pleasant and breathless. It was almost as if the woman he'd been fighting with tooth and nail had suddenly been replaced. He touched his lips to the hollow of her throat and she shivered, pulling back. "Start small," she added, touching his face with her hand. "I would not want you to take back your decision." She kissed his cheek and turned away from him. "Are you coming, husband?"

An idea had suddenly occurred to him, however, and he shook his head with a small smile. "I forgot, I have a little errand to run."

She nodded, entering the Temple without him, and he set his sights in the direction of Solitude's blacksmith.

* * *

He was a sap. An emotional little sap who had let a woman infiltrate his mind. He cursed her half-heartedly in his head, staring down at the items in his palm that shone in the mid-afternoon sun. This was pathetic, really._ If Kodlak and Skjor could see me now._

The rings in his palm were new, forged of the purest gold he could afford, and hers shone with a small, round emerald. Worried that they still weren't unique enough, he had set his own with smaller, matching green gems, and along the inside of each he had engraved their names.

It was cliche, it was cheesy, and he knew it; but all he wanted was for her to wear it.

She wasn't at the Temple any longer, which he should have expected. Did he really expect her to pray for hours straight? He closed his fingers around the rings and set off to find her. It wasn't hard to find where she had gone; all of Solitude was talking about the sophisticated, regal woman staying in Proudspire Manor, and as such the women were gossipping about her walking into the Blue Palace "as if she were the High Queen herself".

He caught himself grinning when he heard that. He stepped into the Blue Palace, wandering through its long halls and grand rooms while the guards eyed him warily. He supposed it helped that he was wearing Companions armor: the armor identified him as a trustworthy character despite how questionable he may appear to the guards, lurking through the Palace. Finally, a guard felt sorry for him as he looped around for the third time, and Vilkas grumbled that he was looking for the Dragonborn. The guard nodded and led him to the Jarl's Throne Room, where Aveline was engaged in a heated conversation with Jarl Elisif. The guard bowed in silence and took his leave, just as Aveline raised her voice and nearly shouted: "I do not appreciate being ordered to do something. I will make my own decision."

"I am not saying these things to offend you, Dragonborn, but if you do not know how to follow orders, how do you expect to make it within the ranks of the Imperial Army?"

"I haven't made the decision to join yet, Elisif."

Elisif was pacing the length of her throne room, face serious and pensive, while Aveline stood off to the side, straight-backed. At Aveline's response, the Jarl stopped and fixed her with a questioning look.

"Haven't you, Aveline? Your involvement could mean the end to this war, you're aware of that, aren't you?"

Aveline's face was terse, more stiff than Vilkas had ever seen. "Tullius slipped me the same pitch, Elisif, so yes, I am aware."

"And yet you_ selfishly_ refuse to join them. Do you know how many have died in this war, Aveline? Do you know how long this war has gone on?"

Vilkas watched her jaw working as she ground her teeth, her tone harsh and biting. "I believe the fault for those deaths lies with Ulfric Stormcloak, and I refuse your attempts to rest it on my conscience as well." Aveline saw him then, though the Jarl had not noticed, and her expression faltered upon seeing him.

"Do you feel nothing?" Elisif screeched.

Aveline's eyes darkened as her head snapped back to Elisif. "Have you been on the front lines, my Jarl?"

"What?"

"Have you been to the camps, seen the wounded first hand?"

"What are you-"

"How about lifted a sword in the name of your people? Have you done that?"

"No, of course not!" Elisif replied impetuously.

"That's why you have guards, is it not?" Aveline snapped. "That's why you have soldiers and farmers and willing men to do the dying _for_ you."

"Watch your tongue!"

"I apologize, my Jarl, but I refuse to let anyone lecture me on my own duty, especially not a woman such as yourself."

"Why you-!"

From the back of the throne room, where even Vilkas had not seen him, Falk Firebeard stepped forward to calm his Jarl. He whispered in her ear and she swung around to look at Vilkas, who now felt more awkward than ever before. Immediately her features smoothed and she lifted her delicate hands to adjust her circlet.

"Greetings, Companion," she said, voice pleasant. "What brings you from Whiterun?"

"My wife," he said, clearing his throat. Elisif seemed confused until Aveline stepped down to him. She greeted him with a kiss to the cheek and stood at his right hand while Elisif raised her eyebrows.

"Well," she said. Her lips tightened. "You continue to surprise me, Dragonborn." She looked to her steward. "I believe the Dragonborn and I are done here. You may tell Erikur, Bryling, and Bolgeir that they may return."

Vilkas followed her out of the palace as she walked at a furious pace, pressing her finger to her temple. Now that he was closer to her he could see the color warring in her irises and he was reminded of that time with the dragon.

"Aveline?"

"Give me a moment, please," she said, her voice strangled. Her lips began forming words in a language he did not understand and her eyes squeezed shut.

He placed his hand on her shoulder, stopping her. This reaction from her was concerning; when she looked up at him again, however, her eyes had returned to their normal color. She gave him a weak smile.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to make you worry."

"It's...alright." He frowned. "Do you want to go back to Proudspire?"

"No," she said, gathering herself. "Why don't we spend a little time around Solitude?"

"Oh." He blinked in surprise and settled on a wary smile. "Alright."

* * *

They wandered the city, Aveline pointing out places they could go. Vilkas felt incredibly civilian, incredibly normal, and he ate it up._ It was nice to pretend,_ he thought, and couldn't help hoping soon it would no longer be _pretend_. His gaze followed a young couple; the girl giggled at the boy and he held her hand. Aveline saw where he was looking and, without a word, slipped her hand into his. When he snapped to her in surprise, she was looking elsewhere; when he stretched his neck to see her face however, he could tell she was hiding a small smile.

* * *

A/N: She's softening a bit. Give the woman time. They've both improved-due to each other, perhaps? Hm...


	9. Touch

A/N: This chapter is for slightly more mature audiences. (Brief mention/allusion to a sexual scene)

* * *

His skin tingled where she had touched and remained like that for most of the day. It was as if she was an entirely new person. She smiled, she touched his arm, she had _held his hand_... He held back a sigh, running his tingling hand through his hair. They stood now in the courtyard, over half the day gone, and a small girl ran up to them.

"Afternoon, Minette." Aveline looked to the girl's friend, a boy about the same age. "Kayd."

"Do you have time to play tag today, Dragonborn?" asked Minette, observing Vilkas with cold, calculating eyes though her tone was light.

"Not today," said Aveline. "I am on a serious visit, Minette. Next time."

Minette nodded and the two children moved to run along and continue their game. Aveline, however, caught the collar of Minette's dress and pulled the girl back. "Don't think I am not aware of what you did, young miss," Aveline said lowly in her ear. "Your 'friends' failed and it would be unwise of you to try again."

For a moment, fear flashed over the girl's face, but she recovered quickly when Aveline let her go. "Just remember, you promised to play tag next time."

As the girl ran off, Vilkas stared at Aveline. "What was that about?"

Aveline straightened, smoothing the front of her dress. Today's was made of satin, a rich deep blue with silver embroidery. "The conniving little child set a contract on my head last year. I dispatched of the hired thugs tastefully outside of Whiterun, of course, but all the same."

"A contract?" Vilkas' voice rose. "On_ your_ head? The_ Dragonborn's_ head?"

"She's a clever girl," said Aveline, and that's all that was said on the matter. Vilkas continued to shoot her questioning glances until she sighed and said, "She was concerned when I spurned her brother's advances. It isn't a big deal, Vilkas."

He took her word for it, but it lingered in his mind even as they entered the Winking Skeever for the drink Aveline professed he needed.

The tavern was packed, filled with the rowdy, boisterous laughter of drunk men and squeals of indignant barmaids. Vilkas raised an eyebrow at his wife, surprised that she would willingly enter this establishment. She, however, seemed perfectly at ease despite the fact that she stuck out more than an Argonian in a Khajit caravan. Men put down their drinks to ogle at her, some more subtle than others, but she ignored them. One man lifted his mead as if to toast her and drank heavily when she nodded. The man behind the bar smiled at her, wiping down the counter with a damp rag as if it made the surface any cleaner.

"Dragonborn, my dear girl," he said, opening his arms wide.

"Corpulus," she acknowledged. She seated herself at the bar, returning his easy smile with tight lips. "You haven't aged a day since my last visit."

"I can't say the same for you," he leered at her. "Those dark circles beneath your eyes have gotten darker. Not sleeping well?"

"Oh, don't you concern yourself with my health, Corpulus, I assure you I sleep quite well." There was an edge to her voice, despite the double-edged pleasantries, and Vilkas wondered if this was what she sounded like when she was lying. He remembered her peaceful slumber from the night before, but the longer he thought about it, she used to have an issue with insomnia...He would find her often outside of Jorrvaskr late at night, and he remembered questioning if she ever slept at all.

He didn't, however, see the circles Corpulus was referring to.

"Come to see what's become of Sorex since your last visit?" Corpulus asked, apparently abandoning whatever rapport they were engaged in. "Or did you actually enter my place with the intent to drink for once?"

"Nothing for me, I'm afraid," she said. "Perhaps my husband would like a drink?"

"Husband?" Corpulus suddenly began to study Vilkas as if noticing his presence for the first time. He was starting to notice a trend in Solitude–Dragonborn first, any companions later. "Well. That's new."

"_He_ is named Vilkas, and I believe you should be asking if he would like a drink." She smiled at Vilkas, motioning for him to sit, but he shook his head and stood closer to her. There was a heat rolling off of her body and he had to clear his throat when it hit him.

"Perhaps another time," said Vilkas, when Corpulus didn't bother to ask.

Corpulus grunted and stalked off to his customers, but before Aveline stood to leave she reached within the bodice of her dress and retrieved a small coin purse.

"What are you doing?" Vilkas asked.

"It's just the way Corpulus and I work," she said as she placed a few gold Septims on the counter. He didn't question her any further, happy enough just to leave the place. The tavern was suddenly stifling; or maybe it was her closeness to him...

They went back to Proudspire–she'd asked if he wanted to visit the market, but he told her he was tired. In truth, he was simply overwhelmed. He sat silently, thinking to himself, as she cooked their dinner, and over the meal she asked, "Is something wrong?"

"Hm?" He looked up from his plate. She'd cooked beef, roast pheasant, and vegetable soup, and though he had hardly an appetite, the food was delicious. He was reminded of the time she'd cooked for all of the Companions–it had been a memorial dinner in honor of Kodlak and Skjor. She'd made a feast, and for a while they had laughed and reminisced about the dead rather than mourned. He remembered her bringing out the snowberry tarts, remembered wondering how she'd gotten a hold of snowberries at that time of year, and remembered toasting their memory with spiced wine and imported Cyrodilic brandy. That had been a good day for the two of them; he remembered hugging her as she helped him to bed that night when he'd tried to stumble off.

"You're distracted."

"What? Oh." Vilkas looked back down at his food. "It's nothing, Aveline."

"I don't believe you," she whispered. Her eyes were cloudy. "You've been a little off all day. Is it...because of me? Have I made you uncomfortable?"

"No." _Yes._ "No," he said more firmly. "I'm just...It's a lot to get used to. This...change in you."

"Is it too soon?"

"Only if it's faked." He was surprised at his own words and felt suddenly concerned. What if it was faked? What if her whole demeanor toward him now was an act?

"It is not fake," she assured him. "A bit forced, perhaps, but certainly not fake. I'm just unused to showing affection, Vilkas, it's a personality flaw for which I hope you'll forgive me. You'll have to guide me. If something is making you uncomfortable or if you feel I'm rushing, tell me. I promise not to be offended."

He chuckled slightly and began again to eat. "I suppose it says something that you're trying," he said around a mouthful of beef.

She smiled at him, and he took it as a good sign when she didn't berate him for his lack of table manners. He watched her for the remainder of the meal, the way she lifted the fork to her mouth, the way her tongue darted out when she closed her lips around the utensil. Suddenly, the act of her eating was remarkably sensual. He gulped a mouthful of mead and focused his gaze on the table. They finished eating and she stood to take his plate, but he grabbed her wrist first. He clenched his jaw against the shivers her soft skin gave him and pulled her down for a fast, bruising kiss. He didn't stop to think about it long, and he didn't think about it after, even when she stood before him slightly dazed.

"Vilkas?" she asked.

"I'm exhausted," he said in response, not meeting her eyes. "I am to assume we're sharing a bed again tonight?"

"Yes, if you'd like."

"I'll head upstairs now then, if that's alright."

She nodded, gathering her plate, but he saw the confusion that had momentarily danced across her eyes. He all but ran up the stairs, unconsciously holding his breath until the bedroom door was safely closed behind him.

He leaned heavily against the door, his breath going ragged. The image of her formed in his mind and he felt himself twitch. She shouldn't have been able to affect him this much. He remembered her touch sizzling his skin, her lips soft and compliant against his, and he grasped himself in one hand. He pumped slowly at first, letting out a long shuddering moan. Weeks of pent up frustration and sexual tension were building into a fast orgasm, and he had to bite his lip to keep from choking out her name as fantasies of her brought him to the peak.

He groaned aloud again, but not from pleasure, as he realized what he had just done. He'd touched himself to thoughts of her. _Oh Divines, it's truly been too long that I've been celibate._ He tried to rationalize it away, rid himself of the panic threatening to rise in his chest, but it was no use.

This was going to be another long night.

* * *

A/N: This is one of my shorter chapters and I apologize, but hope it's worth the wait.


	10. Two Forward, One Back

A/N: Brief mention of sexual scene. Also, don't murder me for the emotions in this.

* * *

He watched her rituals, sitting upright in their bed. She brushed her hair several times, her lips moving without sound as if she were counting to herself. She drank herbal tea, two glasses of it– "It calms me," she said–and rubbed a sweet-smelling oil into her hands before climbing into bed beside him.

"You haven't asked me your question today, husband," she said in a soft voice, resting her head against the pillow.

He knew he shouldn't waste a question, but then again he had the rest of his life, and the only thing he could think of was: "Who did you pray to in the Temple today?"

Her breath ghosted over his skin as she laughed quietly. "Kynareth mainly."

"Oh?"

"I prayed to the Nines, all of them, for guidance, but in my most dire time of need I turn to Kynareth."

"All?" he asked skeptically.

Aveline smiled and said, "Yes, husband, even Talos." He took a few moments to let it sink in, and she rolled onto her side. "Would you mind blowing out the candle, Vilkas?"

He did as she asked, throwing the room into darkness, and felt the bed shift as she made herself comfortable and pulled the covers over her frame. Within minutes, her breathing had evened out and she was asleep at his side. He sighed, laying down and trying to force himself to relax. How could she _do_ that? He envied it, the ease with which she slept.

How was it possible for someone to be beautiful as they slept? He could see her dimly from the light cast through the window by the moon. The line of her jaw, the curve of her neck, the swell of her breasts...He didn't know how long he stayed like that, watching her. It was exactly as it was the night before; his fingertips traced her body, his eyes following, and by the Gods she was beautiful.

He rested for a few hours only, waking to find he was still facing her. The moon was sinking in the sky, signaling it was early morning and the sun would rise soon. He had not slept away the tension, he realized, as his desire flared forth full force.

She shifted in her sleep, and one of her delicate arms brushed across his hip. He swallowed thickly and stared at her face for any signs of alertness as he scooted his body closer to her. He moved a lock of her hair that had fallen in her face, and her eyelids moved as if she were awakening. He reacted before he could talk himself out of it, pressing his lips to hers and letting out a hearty groan at the electricity the touch produced.

"Vilkas," she whispered, eyelids fluttering. She tilted her head up to follow his lips and he flinched away. "What's wrong?"

It had been so long since he'd lain with anyone, his body was screaming at him to give in, and he began to hungrily kiss her again. "This is wrong."

She lifted her hand to his face and that broke the spell. He tore himself off of her, lurching to the other side of the room towards the door, stumbling in the dark. She called his name but he did his best to block her out, one hand outstretched in search of the doorknob. He heard a whisper of a word he didn't understand and the room was bathed in candlelight. He spun around, coming face to face with her, a slightly dazed expression on her face. She was frowning ever so slightly, just a small ripple between her brows. She looked up at him, her eyes large and more open than he'd ever seen.

"Don't tempt me right now," he said sourly. "It would be a mistake."

"Mistake in what way?" she asked, her voice quiet.

He didn't answer her, ruffling his hair. He didn't like this, didn't like the feeling her eyes were giving him. He didn't like that all of a sudden she had the potential to seem vulnerable.

"When was the last time?"

He narrowed his eyes at what he perceived to be an accusation. "Before we were married. I told you I would be faithful."

She looked briefly at her hands, turning the gold band on her finger. He hadn't realized she'd fallen asleep with it on. She dropped her arms to her sides, met his eyes once more, and said, "Vilkas, why have you remained faithful?"

"I told you that I would. I keep to my word. Why does it matter? You made it very clear that I was not to expect you to remain true. I know you've taken lovers."

"I haven't," she whispered.

"What?"

"I haven't taken lovers, Vilkas." She settled into a set expression, as if worried he would find her false. "There has been no one else."

He stared at her as if wondering whether or not to believe her. Time passed slowly. He was half tempted to call her bluff, to mention her flirting with Torvar–Only, she hadn't been flirting. She had spurned his advances, hadn't she? She had come over to Vilkas instead, had drawn him away from Ria and taken him home.

Come to think of it, had there ever been a night so far in their union–aside from the initial two week period–where she had been apart from him?

"Yet," he snapped, recovering. "I know you intend to–"

"I don't."

Now he really was at a loss. "Don't toy with me, Aveline, you said–"

She interrupted him yet again. "I said that as a precaution, Vilkas, to protect myself and keep you from feeling any guilt should you decide to take someone. I told you the option was there for you, and I expected you to take it. Never did I imagine..."

"That I was a man of honor?" he seethed. "Of integrity?"

"That isn't how I meant it, Vilkas."

"Then how did you!" Vilkas roared. "Tell me how you meant it, Aveline!"

"I merely wanted," she said, "you to continue with the pleasures you enjoyed previous to married life. I had thought you would resent me for the marriage once you learned my true intentions, I'd thought you would have no desire to consummate our marriage, and you are a man, Vilkas. You have needs which I assumed you would want satisfied by any woman other than me."

He stared at her incredulously, chest heaving. He couldn't _believe_ this woman! She was so frustrating, so_ logical_, so incredibly _stupid_–

"So you were lying then," he said, trying to clarify. "You haven't taken another, and you don't_ intend_ to take another."

"That is correct."

He lifted his chin and boldly said, "Promise me." The relief that flooded him when she told him that there was no one else had shown him that he was in deep trouble with this woman, and he'd be damned if she tried to go back on it now. "Promise me you'll remain true."

She responded quicker than he anticipated, with a nod of her head and a murmur of the word "promise". Vilkas remembered the rings he'd had made, which he had tucked safely away in a little leather pouch in his pack, and briefly considered going to get them for her now. Before he could entertain the thought much longer, however, he found his body had made a different decision for him; he was pressed against Aveline, his mouth on hers while his hands tangled in her hair. He thought for a moment on the intelligence of the action, but any idea of stopping fled his mind when he felt her kissing him back.

He didn't try to walk her backwards to the bed—her character was too graceful for that, it simply wouldn't do. Instead, he simply lifted her in his arms and strode into the bedroom, kicking the door closed and laying her gently on the sheets. She sighed in what he almost mistook for boredom or apathy, but there was a slight smile on her face when he looked at her and her hands tugged lightly at his nightshirt. His blood boiled at her touch, and a thought surfaced in his mind: _This is right._

He pulled the thin slip from her body; she shivered as the air came in contact with her bare skin, her arms moving up to cover herself.

"Cold?" he asked, surprised at the low baritone of his voice.

Uncertainty passed over her face and he froze. This was only the second time he had ever seen her lacking confidence–the first being that dreadful time with the bow–and for some reason it just didn't make sense in this situation.

"What?" he whispered. He attempted to pry her arms away from herself, but she shook her head.

"Don't look," she replied softly.

"Why? Are you ashamed?"

"They're…small." She was looking at him, but her eyes held that same fogged look they held earlier, as if she were elsewhere entirely. "I've seen the women you've bedded. You don't like when they're…small."

"Aveline." His gaze narrowed. "Aveline, you frustrating woman, look at me." She did as he said. "Are you telling me that you,_ you of all people_, are insecure about the size of your bust?"

She bristled immediately, as he should have realized she would. "Perhaps you were right, Vilkas. This was a mistake." She pushed him off of him, his body and mind both screaming at him.

"Aveline, wait," he grasped her hand. "Stop. I'm sick of chasing you, Aveline."

She hesitated, but only for a moment before extracting her hand from Vilkas' grip. "I think I'll begin packing. We'll have to leave before noon." She stood, replacing her slip and leaving the room entirely.

Vilkas flopped backwards forcefully, slamming his fist down on the bed, and nearly screamed in frustration. Damn her, damn her, _damn her._

* * *

A/N: In Aveline's defense, the poor girl is just self-conscious and he didn't exactly reassure her.


	11. Observer

Vilkas scowled through the entire journey from Solitude. He knew she had gone to say goodbye to the soldier, and he knew it shouldn't have bothered him, but it did. They mounted their horses and rode away from the suddenly-smothering city in silence. He wanted to talk to her about what had happened the night before, to understand why she had gotten so uncomfortable. Every time he tried, however, she would flush scarlet and ride a bit farther ahead of him.

He followed her without thinking much of it, until he realized they were pointed in quite the wrong direction to be returning to Whiterun. When he questioned her, she replied quietly, "I heard tell of a Word Wall in the north, near Dawnstar. There aren't many I've left to visit, but I was hoping since we were relatively in the neighborhood we could make a quick journey there. If you're anxious to be home, husband, I can return at another time."

He thought of all her unexplained absences. "No," he said. "No, I'll go with you. It's fine." He tried on a smile. "We're nearly there anyway, right?"

They weren't actually "nearly there" but they were certainly closer than if they were leaving from Whiterun. They stayed the night in Morthal with little interaction; Aveline actually had the decency to look embarrassed when she paid for a second room for him. He didn't sleep well that night. The worst part of it, perhaps, was that she wasn't malicious or argumentative. She was simply silent.

His chest ached with her distance. It certainly didn't help that he was hyper-aware of her and everything she did. He hadn't even realized before that he had picked up on some of her quirks–the way the tops of her cheeks blossomed with color when she was embarrassed, the way she lifted her pinky slightly out from her hand when she readjusted the buckles of her sword's sheath, the way her eyes seemed to deepen in hue when she looked at him.

He barely remembered reaching Frostmere Crypt, the cold seeping into his skin until his bones were made of ice. The furs on his back were heavy and, after so long on horseback in the harsh northern winds, did little to keep out the chill that crept into his lungs. Aveline stopped suddenly, just as the crypt peeked out at them from the distance, and when he gave her a questioning look she dismounted her horse. He scowled, wondering if he should follow suit, but the woman didn't wait for him. She crouched low, drawing her sword from her back, and inched forward. Vilkas sighed, watching his breath swirl into the cold midday air, and dropped off of his own steed to follow her.

Just at the mouth of the crypt was a group of bandits, on the offensive, their weapons raised against a woman whose armor indicated she belonged to their group. Vilkas grunted quietly; she was probably in the midst of some kind of initiation, or perhaps she'd been caught attempting to steal from them and run–who understood bandits these day? Vilkas didn't, not in the slightest, and he didn't care to.

He almost missed the loss of Aveline's presence from his side as she sprung to the female bandit's defense. The anger on her face was obvious, and he wondered which aspect fueled her rage–that they were attacking one of their own, or that they were attacking a woman.

There was a violence, a kind of forced barbarism in her actions–her moves were not fluid and dancelike as when she fought the dragon. He remembered her conversation with the soldier: _"Alduin is a different beast than Ulfric."_

Did she truly fight dragons so differently than she fought humans?

Her fighting style, as he watched, was just as graceful as ever. Here, however, she was angry; with the dragon every move had been a synchronized step with the creature and though she had exuded power, she hadn't expelled any rage until after the battle's completion. The dragon had matched her; the bandits were clumsy, falling over themselves as she struck them down. When all were dead and she wiped their blood from her cheek, turning to look at him, he could see only a sliver of gold that flashed briefly before vanishing from her eyes. Battles with humans did not excite her, they only enraged her. The rage, which he had thought brought forth that gold coloring–what Aveline had whispered was the result of "dragon blood"–in fact was not its full trigger at all.

Aveline motioned him forward before letting her attention fall to the female bandit. She attempted to stand and immediately Vilkas could tell she was a Nord. She had red warpaint drawn in lines across her face, from her forehead diagonally down to her strong Nordic jaw. The woman fell back against the entrance to the crypt, bleeding heavily from deep wounds in her torso. Aveline's face was set and stern.

"What is your name?" Aveline asked, kneeling beside the bandit.

"Eisa," she said. "Eisa Blackthorn."

"Hold still, Eisa," said Aveline. Her hands began to glow a soft blue and Vilkas reacted on instinct with a flinch. Healing magic.

The Nord woman had a similar reaction. She pushed Aveline's hands away, coughing with the effort. "No," she said harshly. "None of that. I don't want that magic to poison me."

"It's not poison. If I don't heal your wounds, you will die."

"Let me die," snapped Eisa. "As a warrior should."

"But you are not a warrior," Vilkas said, his voice almost at a whisper. "You are a bandit."

Aveline threw him a dirty look but the female bandit barked out a harsh laugh. "I'd expect nothing less from a _Companion_," she spoke the word as if it were a curse. "You're honorable to a fault, you lot. No room for bandits or thieves in your ranks, glorified mercenaries that you–"

She began a heavy fit of wheezing, blood beginning to pool around her. Aveline reached for her again, only to be smacked away.

"Why did they attack you?" Aveline asked, allowing her hands to fall back to her sides.

"They thought I had something to do with the theft." Her voice was growing faint. She was fading from her injuries, and fading fast. "Ra'jiir and I, we were new recruits. He stole a blade from them, ran inside the crypt while they were sleeping." Her eyes grew dim, breath ragged, and her next words were but a whisper. "It's funny, Ra'jiir, we survived then only to..."

"I'll find him," Aveline whispered, closing the dead woman's lids.

"Aveline, we don't have time to–"

She spared him a single harsh glare. "Then wait outside," she said, her voice a soft growl. When she disappeared into the crypt, however, he couldn't help trailing behind.

* * *

A/N: I haven't decided if I'm going to include the inside of Frostmere Crypt or have Vilkas tell of it later. Which do you think? I hate when stories get bogged down by retelling quests exactly as they happened in game. Thoughts?


	12. Failed

_She pushes herself too hard. Why does she always push herself so far?_

The unconscious woman in his arms felt far too delicate, too fragile, to be a dragonslayer. He knew of her status, he'd been reminded of her skill and her strength time and time again, but at this moment it was the most difficult for him to grasp.

_The gods have an unusual sense of humor._

It concerned him that she had faded from consciousness so easily. Each enemy within the crypt had seemed so unchallenging for her. She had descended further into the depths in search of the Word Wall and Ra'jiir, as casual as if she were taking a stroll.

_To think that this would affect her so much..._

Vilkas had managed, after everything had happened, to get her back to Morthal and back into the Moorside Inn. She was covered in blood–he couldn't tell which was hers and which was...She stirred at the warmth of the inn, and a strange emotion in his chest flared to life.

He would never forget the look on her face when she found the dying bandit leader in the crypt. The amount of conflict he could see in her eyes at having slaughtered his men, the regret at having failed to save Eisa. She had sat silently by the bandit's side as he died, listening to his final words. Still, when she stood, he found for any conflicting emotions she might have, she never faltered in her resolve. She entered the final chamber with a stoic expression; he knew it must have taken some effort for that expression to stay in place when they were confronted by the Pale Lady.

Vilkas removed her bloodied armor and laid her flat on the bed, preparing a wet washcloth to clean her. She groaned, returning to the world of the conscious, as he dragged the cloth over her closed eyes to remove the red liquid from her lids.

Her hoarse cry echoed in his mind–she had shouted for Ra'jiir as he fell at the wispmother's hand. She picked up his sword, the Pale Blade, dripping with his own blood, and let loose a Dragon Shout that made the walls of the crypt tremble. She killed the Pale Lady with the force of her rage, and her eyes flashed gold before closing. Then the wall just in front of her, covered in strange markings that looked similar to the engraving on her sword, began to glow. She swayed on her feet as some invisible force was pulled from the wall into her body–Vilkas swore he heard the roar of a dragon in her exhale. Then she had collapsed, utterly spent, her body still trembling from the force of the Word Wall.

His hand shook as he cleaned her. So that was what happened each time she learned a new Shout. Did it truly take so much out of her?

_Does she pass out every time? She's gone on every mission alone...Stupid girl! Doesn't she know how dangerous that is? What if that happened while there were still enemies?_

She groaned again and moved to sit up; he pushed back on her shoulder. "Don't move."

"I'm not hurt," she insisted, sitting upright with only a slight wince. He had cleaned a majority of the blood from her, and she was right–physically, she wasn't hurt.

"You passed out. Healthy people tend not to do that." He couldn't help his biting tone. He was angry with her. Angry for being so unbreakable every other time, for seeming so inhuman, and angry for making him worry this time.

"I see your wit survived the battle."

_Back to our old banter already? How quick we are to revert..._

"Does that happen every time?" He surprised himself by asking the question, biting his lip.

"No," she said, letting her head fall into her palms. "I've only fainted from it once before, when I first learned a Shout."

He was relieved to know learning the Shouts didn't put her in any immediate danger, but he desperately wanted to know why this time. What was different? He stopped half a dozen questions from leaving his lips, dropping his gaze from her and asking instead, "Are you hungry?"

"No." She reached out to where Vilkas had leaned the Pale Blade against the wall. She grabbed it, drawing it near her. "You brought it."

"You were holding it pretty tightly," he said.

She nodded absently, her thumb stroking the hilt. "What a thing to die for...Those bandits...their leader...Eisa, Ra'jiir..." Her grip tightened fractionally and then released. "We're in the Moorside, then."

"Yes."

She nodded again. "You carried me all the way back here from the crypt."

He didn't respond–it hadn't been a question. She tightened her hold again on the sword, her body trembling again, and when he saw the first tear trickle down her cheek he honestly believed it to be an illusion.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Can you...Will you leave me, for just a moment?"

He was about to decline, still worried for her condition, when another tear slid from her eyes. This was unmistakable; he shot to his feet, feeling insanely uncomfortable, and fled the room without a word. He stood outside the door in a state of shock. She had actually cried, for _bandits_ nonetheless. He wracked his brain, trying to remember if he had ever seen her cry, and came up empty. Not when Skjor or Kodlak had died, not when–His brain stuck on that. She hadn't cried when Kodlak had died, but here she was _weeping_ over a group of good-for-nothing–!

He gritted his teeth and shoved through the door of the room. Her head shot up to stare at him, tear tracks down her cheeks, and he slammed the door closed.

"Vilkas, please, I asked you–" She didn't wipe the tears from her face but instead bowed her head and covered her eyes with her hand.

"No, don't cover it." He grabbed wildly at her wrist, pulling at her body until she was taut before him. Her back arched in an attempt to compensate as he lifted her arm high above her. "Tell me why. Why are you crying for them, _bandits_ you didn't even know, when you couldn't even shed tears over your own Harbinger?"

Her face immediately hardened, doing away with any vulnerability she may have shown and she growled out, "What could you possibly know of my emotions following Kodlak's death?" He opened his mouth but she spoke over him. "You blamed me, if you recall. It was all Aveline's fault he had died, that cold-hearted bitch. I might as well have picked up a knife and slit his throat myself for how you treated me in the weeks once he died. Even when you learned that I had been fulfilling his wishes, that I was trying to send his soul to Sovngarde, you gave no apology for your actions until I had cured you and Farkas as well. You never asked, Vilkas, if I cried over Kodlak. You never cared."

Vilkas felt a muscle in his face twitch as she called him out. It was true he had treated her unfairly in that time, but he _had_ apologized–at Farkas' urging, but an apology was an apology. That was years ago, why was she still bitter over it?

"Just because I wasn't public in my mourning," she hissed, "doesn't mean I felt _nothing_."

He suddenly felt very foolish in his accusation, and he did what he always did when he felt foolish–he barged on. "Why cry over the bandits? Why run to that woman's rescue?" _I don't understand you, Aveline, why can't you just make sense?_

"They were attacking one of their own, Vilkas." Her hand clenched and unclenched in his grip. "Not everyone is as loyal to each other to the Companions. I have seen treachery within groups. What the Companions have is unique. It...angers me to see betrayal." She looked away from him. "As to why I wept, Vilkas, if you must know, it's simply because I failed."

"Failed?"

She glared at him wholeheartedly, tugging her arm out of his grasp. "If we're going to keep talking, can you let go? This isn't comfortable, husband."

He dropped her arm, and she rubbed at her shoulder. "How did you fail? Fail at what?"

"At everything," she snapped. After a pause, she sighed. "Failed to save Eisa, failed to save Ra'jiir, I just failed. In the end all I could do was banish the Pale Lady." She barked out a hollow laugh. "That's all I'm good for, anyway. I battle the monsters, but I never save anyone."

She had been staring at the sword, when she suddenly turned over her hand and looked at her palm. Vilkas could see the faint line of a scar where she had cut her hand on the shield that second night of their time together, after the marriage, after she had returned.

"Mother would be livid," she whispered. "You can tell a woman's worth..."

"By her hands, I remember." Vilkas eyed her oddly. "You haven't been wearing your gloves in battle recently.

"Yes." She closed her hand into a fist. "I've been careless."

Vilkas was taken aback to see her eyes glistening again.

"I wonder what Mother would say now," she said. Her voice was almost dead, lifeless and emotionless as if a switch had flipped in her brain. "She'd probably agree that I'm a failure." A strange smile overtook her lips. "I would have made a terrible noblewoman." She looked up at him. "I apologize if you've found my answers unsatisfactory, husband."

He was stunned at the shift in her. He wanted–What did he want? He had wanted answers, had wanted explanations, had wanted emotions; and when she gave that to him, he had responded in anger that she hadn't shown it earlier. That was no good. What was the point of getting her to open up to him if he just got upset she hadn't done it before?

"I'm sorry."

Aveline blinked up at him, at the hand he extended towards her to help her up.

"Would you like to get a drink with me, Aveline?"

She took his hand, a wariness visible in her eyes–he couldn't blame her, really. Her actions were just a reaction to him; if he wanted _her_ to change, he had to approach her differently. There was simply no other option. With a lingering look, Aveline placed the sword on the bed and allowed him to offer any support she needed as she got to her feet.

"Let me dress, husband," she said quietly. "Then I'll join you."

Vilkas nodded, feeling the slight squeeze she gave his hand just before she let go.

* * *

A/N: More characterization of Aveline. I opted out of detailed questing**–**tiresome to go through all of that when Vilkas' perceptions are the only things that matter about it.


	13. Doomed

A/N: Going to be slightly mature, a little explicit, but nothing full blown and I promise it fits into the plot.

* * *

Vilkas had never seen Aveline get drunk, and that fact didn't change when she joined him for drinks in the Moorside Inn. She ordered for him, a kind of mead that apparently only Moorside served, but she herself spent the entire night sipping a single glass of spiced wine. The mead had a honeyed sweetness that was different than other meads he'd had, less tangy than traditional Nord mead. He had three bottles of it.

It wasn't lost on him the way she smiled, the way she laughed, as she drank her wine. The mead spurred him forward in a conversation that was lighter than they'd ever had. He was beginning to perspire, heat pooling in his belly from the alcohol.

At one point, he made a joke—a tactless joke, a joke he'd made often around the Companion men, a joke which had earned him more than one deserved slap from Aela—and she had given him a reproachful look before breaking into a grin and giving his shoulder a light shove. He caught her hand, laughing, and suddenly an intensity blossomed between them which he was helpless against. Within a moment he had pulled her from her seat onto his lap and claimed her mouth. She released an undignified noise, which he was sure he would have balked over under different circumstances, but he paid no mind.

Her hands curled in the hair at the nape of his neck. She pulled away, gasping, and untangled herself from him. His body was on fire, his breathing unsteady.

"Vilkas." She touched his face, smiling gently. "I think you've had enough, hm?"

She stood, grasping his hand and pulling him along, and he ignored the looks and catcalls he received from the other inn patrons—he had forgotten where they were for a moment. He followed her back to their room, still uncomfortably warm, and she released him once they were inside. The heat was stifling, and he closed the door of their room before striding to the window and throwing it open. She sat on the edge of the bed, grasping the Pale Blade once more with a faraway look.

"It's freezing outside," she said calmly.

He growled, baring his teeth at her. "It's_ boiling_ in here." Sweat beaded his brow.

Her lips quirked up in a smile. "Perhaps you shouldn't have had quite so much mead."

Despite the window being open, blowing slight flurries into the room, he was still sweating. He shed his armored chest plate, tossing it with a loud metallic clang into the corner. "If you're suggesting I can't hold my alcohol, maybe you got hit too hard by the Wispmother."

When he turned back to face her, her gaze was focused solely on the sword in her lap. She was introspective suddenly, brooding, and he knew why—he cursed himself inwardly for bringing up the subject again.

"It wasn't your fault, you know," he said. He moved to take the sword from her, and her hand on the hilt held on briefly before she let him take it. He laid it gently with his armor. "There was nothing you could have done."

"It doesn't matter what you say, Vilkas." Her eyes were cold. "Their blood is on my hands."

He lifted his hand, touch ghosting over her shoulder. He was still burning, the entire room filled with heat. He knew he should be annoyed at her, frustrated with her, but he couldn't bring himself to fight with her anymore today. He noticed the little tremors of emotion within her. He could see it so clearly now where he couldn't before—her eyebrows drew together just the slightest bit and her irises darkened when she was upset, and he realized that he had never before seen her tells because he had never been looking closely enough.

"Close the blasted window," she murmured. "I'm frigid."

He didn't close the window; instead, his hand traced every inch of bare skin he could find, which unfortunately wasn't much given her long-sleeved dress. She surprised him by leaning into his touch, and he took her chin between his thumb and index finger, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"Why are you taking this on yourself?" he asked.

"I'm the Dragonborn." Her eyes glanced briefly at his lips. "How can I face the world with honor if I can't even save two people?"

He kissed her then, swallowing her words, and when she started to weakly protest, he swatted her hands away. She became unexpectedly compliant after that, melting under his body as he pushed her down into the bed. His fingers worked to deftly remove the material from her body, but when the last piece fell away and he felt her stiffen, he made no attempt to remove any more. She relaxed again, his hands flitting across her body. He never wanted to stop touching her; she was more intoxicating than any liquor. She was resistant when his hands delved beneath her chest bindings but he persisted, touching with decisiveness and purpose.

Her breasts were soft, a bit small in his large hands but certainly not a deal breaker. They were perky as he removed the bindings, her nipples a light pink.

"Don't—" In a flurry, her hands flew to cover herself when his fingertips began to explore lower on her body.

"What are you afraid of?" he demanded, covering her hands with his. "Are you worried about actually feeling something for me?" His expression darkened. "Or are you just ashamed? You'll tolerate only so much but you hate me to the point where you're too disgusted for us to be intimate?"

"Vilkas, that's not…" Her eyes were open, vulnerable—the same look she'd given him that first night he tried to be intimate with her. Instead of finishing her sentence, she swallowed and settled into a resolved expression. "Think whatever you wish of me."

"You want to know what I think?" He pulled her hands to the side, touching the soft insides of her thighs. Her legs parted only slightly. "I think you want me, and you're lying to yourself about it. In fact, I'd go even further, and say you've always wanted me." He was grasping at straws and he knew it; he was desperate to be right. She bit her lip as his caresses got closer to the heat emanating from her center. "That's why you haven't taken another lover, isn't it, Aveline?"

Color crept into her cheeks as he removed her underclothes, fingers brushing against her folds. His suspicions were confirmed; by the gods, she was soaking. Just from his voice in her ear and his touch on her skin. The pad of his finger found her nub, touching it softly and gauging her reaction. The heat in the room now emanated from her, icy wind and open window forgotten. Her face was flushed, eyes closed tight, but nonetheless her hips bucked upwards as he touched her. In a tender moment, he pressed his lips to the skin of her upper thigh as her legs fell completely open to him. He planted soft caresses with his mouth, trailing up. The smell of her, the feel—Gods.

Abruptly, she spasmed beneath his hands, body trembling and breath going ragged, and he withdrew from her in shock. Had she really come already? So quickly?

Her hands flew to her face, and for a moment he had the absurd worry that she was going to cry.

"Aveline…" He crawled up her body, trying to get him to look at her, but she rolled onto her side and gathered the covers tightly around her. He sighed in frustration and defeat, getting into bed beside her. Her body stiffened as she felt him and he ignored the pain that stabbed into his chest. He waited for her to say something but was met with silence and eventually her breathing began to level out—a sure sign that she had fallen asleep.

He was halfway to falling asleep when he heard a scream from beside him. He bolted upright in time to see Aveline beginning to thrash, her eyes wide with fear and glistening with unshed tears.

She was shouting in a foreign tongue—he was only able to catch a few of the words.

"_Bah do Alduin—Joorre fen aus—Kein ko Keizaal, jul fen kos krent—Daanik, daanik_—"

He grabbed wildly at her, attempting to keep her still and calm her down, and she struggled. "Aveline! Aveline, it's me!"

She stopped, her chest heaving violently, and the tears spilled over. The last word, "_daanik_" became her mantra as he held her wrists, and she curled into his chest. Her frame was soon wracked with uncontrollable sobs, and he held her through the night until she quieted. She didn't rest for long before her eyelids closed and she fell asleep—she had been asleep for maybe half an hour before she screamed again. Vilkas repeated the previous cycle, listening to the word "_daanik_" once more, and he rocked her body in his arms until she stilled from exhaustion. Vilkas stared down at the woman in his grip, shock filling his features. This time, she slept until sunrise.

* * *

She awoke later than him that morning, eyes red from crying. She flew upright when she saw Vilkas, seated in a chair beside the bed with a grave expression.

"How are you feeling?" he asked first, his voice low.

Aveline drew the covers closer to her. "I'm well, husband." After he had nodded, she asked, "How did you sleep?"

His eyebrows shot up his forehead. "Really? You're asking me that?" He leaned forward, placing his large hands on the tops of his knees. "Don't you remember? You had two nightmares last night, Aveline, kept me up nearly all evening with your screaming and thrashing. When did you start having night terrors that bad?"

Her hands fisted in the sheets and she seemed almost ashamed. "I don't know what you're referring to."

"Bullshit!" he shouted, causing her eyes to snap to him in surprise. "What in Oblivion was that, Aveline? Don't try to play it off. I saw you. You were terrified of something." He ran a hand through his hair. "You kept talking in a strange tongue and muttering this one word..."

"What did I say?" she asked in a strange, strained tone. He told her and she nodded slowly. "In order, that means 'Wrath of Alduin, Mortals will suffer, War in Skyrim, mankind will be broken'."

He took in her translation for a minute, not quite believing her. "And that word? The one you kept repeating."

"It means 'doomed'," she whispered. "In the Dragontongue."

"You were speaking Dragon language?" He'd heard her speak in the strange tongue before, and he nodded slowly. "What was the nightmare about?"

"I've always had them." Her voice shook and he watched her bite the inside of her cheek. When she spoke next her voice was hardier. "Ever since I awakened as the Dragonborn. It's the Dragon souls, the souls I absorb when I kill them. That's what started it. Recently, since the defeat of Alduin, my nightmares have been..." She took a deep breath. "Of our battle, and the vision of what would have happened had I failed."

"This is the first time I've ever—"

"The tea I drink before bed," she interrupted. "It contains a potent medicine that allows me to sleep dreamlessly. Without it, the nightmares return. I forgot to drink it last night because of..." Her cheeks flushed slightly and she rubbed her temples with both hands.

"What does it mean?" he asked. "The things you were saying?"

There was a long pause in which she simply stared at her hands and said nothing. When she began to speak, it was very slow and very deliberate. "Do you remember," she asked him, "the rumors that first surfaced at the reappearance of dragons? How Ulfric had found a way to resurrect them?"

"Of course." Vilkas snorted. "Load of shit that was." _What does that have to do with this?_

"Not entirely. While it's true no mortal man can summon or control a dragon, Ulfric plays a part." She clenched and unclenched her delicate hands on the tops of her thighs. "Have you heard of Alduin's prophecy?"

"No." He frowned, staring at her. "There was a prophecy?"

"I'm not surprised." She chuckled softly. "I can't imagine how much worse things would be if everyone knew."

"Knew what?"

"There is a prophecy, pictured on a mural in a secret place I sincerely hope you will never have to see. It foretold of Alduin's return, of how his presence would resurrect not just the ancient dragons he summoned specifically, but all of dragonkind. It predicted that beforehand, a great civil war would break out and Tamriel would fracture."

Vilkas stared at her, jaw agape. "It predicted the war?"

She nodded, her eyes showing she was somewhere else entirely. "That and so much more..."

He waited for more of an explanation and received none. "So that's what you were repeating? The consequences depicted in the prophecy if you had failed?" _I still don't really understand what those would be. Is she purposely leaving that out? Is it too painful?_

"Yes." Her voice, however, indicated that there was something else.

"But you succeeded."

Her eyes clouded. "Yes," she said vaguely. "I succeeded."

His suspicions rose suddenly. "What is it you're not telling me?"

"Not today, Vilkas." She sounded so_ tired_.

"Aveline," he tried again.

"Vilkas, please."

He froze at the edge in her voice.

"It's not your burden to bear." She pinched the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath, an action he'd seen her do before. "Please, Vilkas, I don't want to talk of this anymore. Don't press me."

There was a world of other questions he wanted to ask her, but he got an uneasy feeling at her reactions. His stomach turned at the thought of another night with her in that much pain, in that much sheer terror, and so he agreed to drop the subject. She let out her held breath and thanked him.

_There are so many things I don't understand about you,_ he thought as they dressed and began preparations to leave Morthal. _How is it that we've been comrades for four years and I never knew anything about you until now?_

* * *

A/N: Aveline provided the translation of her nightmare (in dialogue). Thoughts?


	14. Her Mentor

When she requested—flinching a little as she spoke—they take yet another side trip on their way back to Whiterun, Vilkas was starting to think she was stalling for time. She had told Tullius that once she returned home he would have his answer within a week—maybe she was using this extra time as an opportunity to really think it over.

He was tempted to tell her he wasn't going—she mentioned it so offhandedly, despite the fact that the destination was the Throat of the World. The top of a goddamn mountain. The_ Throat_ of the goddamn _World_. What business could she possibly have up there?

"You may return to Whiterun ahead of me, husband," she said, holding suspiciously tight to the reins of her horse. "I won't be more than a few days."

He stared at her. Sure, he had just been considering exactly what she suggested, but something about doing as she said lit a fire of stubbornness under him. "What will you be doing?"

"I must speak with my mentor." She gave him a sidelong glance. "I don't wish to impede your return home."

Her mentor? He remembered that the Throat of the World was home to High Hrothgar and the Greybeards. Was she going to pay them a visit?

"I'll accompany you." The words slipped from his mouth before he could stop them. Hadn't he said this to her before?

"That's not necessary, husband. I'll be fine on my own," she said. She offered him a smile. "It's a path I've traveled many times. There are no surprises for me on that mountain."

"Still," he went on, "I'd like to go with you."

Something shifted in her gaze, and her voice tightened. "I wouldn't want to bore you, husband."

"Aveline." He said her name with as much force as he could muster without shouting. "I'm going with you."

Her lips formed a thin line. "Very well."

"Why are you always so secretive about where you go and when you leave?" he demanded.

"I wouldn't want to burden the Companions with my duties as Dragonborn. That's hardly fair, Vilkas." She had lost her fight when she said these words, and he regretted getting frustrated with her.

"You're not just our Harbinger, Aveline," he whispered. "You were our shield-sister first. Don't feel like you have to hide things from us. Farkas, Aela...we want to help. You don't have to do everything on your own."

She looked at him, her lips forming an 'O'.

He cleared his throat and straightened his back. "I'm going with you on all Dragonborn-related ventures from now on." A weird feeling surged into his chest. "After all, I'm your husband, aren't I?"

She caught him off guard by actually smiling at that. "Yes, Vilkas. You are."

* * *

It took two days to get to the mountain. They reached the base in the middle of the afternoon, and Aveline gave him a small smile before telling him she wished to continue. The trip to the top of the Throat of the World took them well into night. He wondered if she pushed herself like this often—after all, if she took the time to camp every night, each of her absences would have taken much longer.

He could see the continuation of the steps that would lead them to High Hrothgar, but Aveline was leading him up a separate path. He frowned but didn't verbally question her. There was probably a reason; everything Aveline did had a reason, whether he agreed with that reason or not. They were curving around the top of the mountain, the moon casting their only source of light. Vilkas had pulled on his furs at the earliest signs of snow—he disliked being cold, disliked it immensely. Aveline had yet to don her own. Perhaps she had been to the mountain so often she was used to its temperature. She paused with her hand on a rock, and turned to look at him.

"I'm about to do something that will greatly disturb you, Vilkas," she said, "but I ask you now to lower your sword."

He quirked his eyebrows at her. "My sword? It's not even—"

"I know how you think, Vilkas." She smiled at him. "When something frightens you, you draw your sword on it. I'm asking you to stifle that instinct, just for a brief period of time while I speak with my mentor."

"We're going to speak with him now? This late?"

The smile was suddenly tinged with mischief. "Trust me. He won't mind, husband."

He followed her the rest of the way up, until they reached the very top of the mountain: a flat area with some kind of shrine wall built off to the side. Vilkas froze in place, his fingers twitching for his blade, and he realized now why Aveline had warned him against drawing his sword. Curled in the center of the top of this mountain was a large sleeping dragon. It was humongous, grey, with worn-looking wings. It was covered with spikes—on its face, along its spine, on the curve of its tail. It even had horns.

While he stood stock still, Aveline approached the creature and laid her hand between the horns on its head—the only smooth part of its scalp. She knelt so that she was positioned directly in front of its eyes should it awaken.

"Paarthurnax," she said firmly, smiling and massaging the heel of her palm against its head. "_In. Nii los zu._"

[Master. It is I.]

There was a great exhale from the beast, steam rising from its nostrils as it stirred from its slumber. "Dovahkiin."

Vilkas swallowed harshly, fighting against the yelp that had built behind his teeth. He had fought many creatures, killed many things, but a dragon at this hour of night? It was enough to terrify the most hardened of men, especially when the thing—Aveline had called it, him?, 'Paarthurnax'—lifted itself up on its haunches. It bowed its head in Aveline's direction, and in the moonlight Vilkas could see the soft expression on her features.

"_Krosis_, Paarthurnax," Aveline said next. [Apologies, Paarthurnax.] Her gaze flickered to Vilkas and then back to the dragon. "For rousing you at this hour of night."

"_Faas ni_," spoke the dragon. [Fear not.] "My slumber was not deep." Paarthurnax used his snout to gently touch her shoulder. "You are not one to treat our visits lightly. Why have you come, Dovahkiin?"

Again, Aveline looked to Vilkas. She gestured for him and he took an unsteady step forward. Her eyes betrayed an exhaustion he had never seen before. "Paarthurnax, I would like you to meet Vilkas. He is a Companion, hailing from Whiterun." She offered the dragon a wavering smile as Vilkas reached her side. Her voice lowered slightly as she slipped easily back into the dragon's language. "_Rok los ahmul do Aveline_."

[He is my husband (husband of Aveline).]

"_Aan zin, ahmul do Dovahkiin." _[An honor, husband of Dragonborn.] Paarthurnax dipped his head towards Vilkas next, who stiffened but said nothing. The dragon repeated it so that Vilkas could understand, tone patient and understanding, and Vilkas returned the statement with an awkward half-bow. He licked his dry lips.

"It's an honor as well to meet Aveline's mentor," returned Vilkas, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat.

"Husband," said Aveline in a quiet voice. She put her hand on his arm and he looked at her, surprised. "Why don't you get some sleep while Paarthurnax and I talk? You've gone too long without rest."

_So have you._ He wanted to protest, wanted to demand that she include him in whatever she was to speak of with the dragon, but as soon as she spoke he realized how tired he was. He let his hand fall to her waist, the other moving her hair out of her face, and he kissed her long and slow. He ignored the warm air that hit him and the strange noise emanating from Paarthurnax—the dragon was chuckling, deep and rumbling within its chest. When he parted from Aveline, he swiped his thumb briefly over her lower lip.

"You'll tell me what the two of you discuss, won't you?" He searched her eyes.

Her gaze softened and she gave him a simple nod. He nodded in return and left her, gathering their things from where they had left the horses and setting up his bedroll in a slight alcove away from the wind. They began speaking avidly—on Aveline's part, anyway—in Dragontongue, and listening to the purr her words held, Vilkas drifted to sleep.

* * *

He awoke with Aveline in his arms, awake and staring at him. He blinked twice, rubbed his eyes, and promptly burst into a coughing fit. Aveline sat up, concern etched on her features, but he waved her concern away as he regained control of his breathing. He peered around her, frowning.

"Where's..."

"Paarthurnax?" She smiled. "He flew off maybe an hour ago. He sends his deepest regrets he was not able to properly congratulate us on our wedding, or properly say goodbye, but I told him not to wake you." She reached for him, then thought better of it and slowly withdrew her hand. Instead, she clasped her hands in her lap. "I know how...uncomfortable that must have made you."

He shook his head in wonderment at her. "When did you learn to speak it that fluently?"

She smiled again, slightly reassured, and answered, "I've been taking lessons from him for the better part of three years. This isn't far from Whiterun, no more than a day's travel to get here and back." She laughed suddenly. "It's been a few months since I've visited last. He said my accent hasn't gotten any better."

Vilkas' face wrinkled at the absurdity of the comment, and her laughter grew. Before he realized what was happening, he was chuckling along with her. Once it had died down, he regained a stern expression and stood to begin packing their things. She joined him.

"What did you discuss?" he asked after a few minutes of debating with himself.

"My path," she answered cryptically.

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"I promise to explain it in detail once we are home and rested, Vilkas." She touched his arm, just a light brushing of fingertips against his bicep. "I've spread you too thin. You need to sleep long, in a proper bed, and then we can worry ourselves about the future."

He didn't let himself question her or badger her for answers. He took her words, he absorbed them, and he nodded. She stared at him as if anticipating it to be a joke or a mistake, but she seemed altogether relieved. He gave no remarks about it, one way or the other, and he thought she gave him a smile of pure warmth before turning to their horses.

Whether he had been mistaken or not, the smile had lit a fire within his chest that burned long after they reached Whiterun and long after he fell to blissful sleep in his Breezehome bed.

* * *

A/N: I included translations in-text in brackets since there was so much Dragon language in this chapter. I hope it didn't confuse anyone!

I think Vilkas handled meeting Paarthurnax quite well! Though his pride wouldn't have allowed for anything else. Thoughts on this chapter?


	15. Debt

Farkas looked extremely surprised to see his brother seated at Jorrvaskr's dining table. He blinked rapidly a few times, mouth agape. Vilkas expected questions about his journey, questions on his return, questions on the state of his marriage, and he laughed out loud when the first thing Farkas asked was, "Does this mean I don't have to be in charge anymore?"

Once his laughter had died down, Vilkas nodded, and his brother burst into a large grin.

"Excellent," said Farkas. "It was getting exhausting." His smile was suddenly directed at something behind Vilkas.

Vilkas felt his lips twitch up and cleared his throat to avoid sounding too excited. "I thought you were going to Dragonsreach this morning, Aveline?"

His wife entered the mead hall, gliding to him, and her hand brushed gently across his broad shoulders. "Balgruuf has waited over a week for my return, husband," she said. "What's a few more hours?"

He caught her hand on impulse and brushed her knuckles across his lips. Farkas was staring at them, jaw nearly to the floor.

"Well," said the other brother. "That's...certainly an improvement."

Aveline smiled. "If you'll excuse me, I have a few matters to attend to here. After, I must meet with the Jarl." She addressed Vilkas. "Would you gather all the Companions tonight? I'd like to have us all together for dinner."

Vilkas nodded, his smile feeling slightly forced at the thought of her visiting the Jarl. She still had not told him precisely what she and her dragon mentor had discussed-she had insisted he rest, and he spent the majority of his time since their return doing just that. Traveling with her was physically and emotionally exhausting, and he thought wryly, _No wonder she always goes alone._

Aveline must have sensed his hesitation and wariness. She gave his hand a squeeze before pulling away. "I promise to keep you informed, Vilkas."

She breezed out the door, and Vilkas turned back to the disbelieving stare of his twin.

"Okay," said Farkas, "what changed? Before you left, you...you..."

Vilkas sighed. How could he explain it in a way that made sense? He could barely make any sense of it himself. "She and I...reached an agreement."

"No." Farkas pointed his finger at his brother and took a seat on the bench next to him. "An agreement does not look like that. Now it looks like you two are actually getting along."

"Yeah," said Vilkas quietly. "Yeah, it does look like that, doesn't it?"

"How in Oblivion did that happen? You're treating her completely different than you did before, brother."

"Am I?" Vilkas murmured.

"Yes," stated his brother emphatically. "What happened?"

_I'm really not sure_, Vilkas thought. He shrugged, unable to give his brother an answer, and Farkas threw up his hands.

"The two of you make no damn sense," he grumbled. Suddenly, he brightened up, and Vilkas blinked at his change. "I suppose the how doesn't really matter as long as you're happy." He clapped his brother on the shoulder and stood, heading toward the back presumably for some training.

Vilkas stared at the wood grain of the table. Was he happy? Is that what this was?

* * *

She surprised him yet again by spending less than forty minutes that afternoon at Dragonsreach. She sat next to him at the table, moving dishes out of the way, and without a word began to read letters. She had accumulated quite the pile while they were away, and he was stunned to see her carefully reading over each one. She replied to all of them, her neat handwriting sloping across the paper. Some replies were short, others were nearly two pages. He could guess that a majority of the letters were requests for help, but a few were thank you letters for help she had offered previously and one-which he noticed by reading briefly over her shoulder-was an almost three-page long letter from someone named Alvor. This one made her smile, and she set it aside in its own place before starting in on her reply.

Jealousy slammed into his brain, making him wince. He tried to sound casual when he asked, "Who's Alvor?"

Her smile was soft. "A very dear friend of mine in Riverwood." Her eyes twinkled and she looked back to the letter before beginning her reply. "Hadvar's uncle."

Vilkas narrowed his eyes. There was that name again. Soldier boy was following them. "What do you owe him, Aveline?" he growled out.

She glanced at him in surprise before realizing what she had said. "My life," she answered honestly. She knew he needed more of an answer than that, and she continued, "Do you remember that attack on Helgen?"

She went on as if she didn't expect him to answer, but her words were slow. Almost as if she didn't want to tell him. "I had just crossed the border into Skyrim. I was arrested by some overzealous Imperial soldiers, still excited from capturing Ulfric Stormcloak. I arrived in a cart with Ulfric, a Stormcloak named Ralof, and a horse thief at Helgen, and Hadvar was the soldier with the prisoner list. He noticed my name wasn't on it, and he tried to save me from beheading. He was outranked by Legate Rikke, and I was sent to my death regardless of the prisoner log."

_Legate Rikke?_ Vilkas remembered her addressing the woman at Castle Dour. It must have burned the soldier woman to know the "prisoner" she'd nearly killed had turned out to be the Dragonborn. Vilkas blinked. Wait. Aveline was at Helgen? The place had burned to the ground, the gate permanently locked, and there had been hardly any survivors. She had never told the story of how she came to Skyrim, but he never expected it to be something so violent. Her first experience of this land had been one of death and destruction and, oddly enough, a dragon. Once again he was struck by just how little he knew of her.

"How did you survive?" Vilkas breathed.

"In an ironic way, I suppose Alduin saved me." Her lips formed a thin line, her expression guarded. He wished desperately that she would show him her emotions. "He swooped down, attacking Helgen just before the executioner's blade fell. I was bound, wearing rags, and for some reason I hadn't felt the same level of fear as all those fleeing people. For a while, I just stared at the flames, the death, the screaming women and children. I likely would have been killed without Alduin even knowing what I was. In the panic, Hadvar grabbed a hold of me and pulled me into a tower. He untied my hands, dressed me in armor, handed me a sword, and led me through the wreckage and into the keep so that we could escape the attack."

Vilkas stared at her.

"I had never picked up a sword before then," she whispered. "He protected me, killed to save me." She shook her head. "Just a quiet prisoner with dirt on my face, shaking in boots that didn't fit as I held a sword I didn't know how to use."

She rolled her shoulders, her eyes sliding to him. He waited. Surely there was more to the story, wasn't there? Would she tell him?

"Whatever you may think of him, Vilkas," she continued on quietly, "I would not be alive today if it weren't for him." She gave a slight nod of her head and went on. "He brought me to Riverwood-I had no connections, no knowledge of my surroundings. He asked Alvor to look after me so that he could return to the Imperial Legion. Alvor took me in, allowed me stay in his home and share his family's meals, and he taught me sword fighting and smithing. He made sure I had the skills I would need to survive. They assisted me, a stranger, with no knowledge of my status as Dragonborn. I myself did not yet know who I was in that regard. I was simply a helpless, lost Breton girl, and they cared for me out of kindness. It's so hard in this world to find good, honest people who ask for nothing in return. I owe them both my life." She lifted Alvor's letter fondly. "I have no way to repay what they've done for me."

Vilkas had sat silently while she spoke. It was a lot to take in. This was more than she had ever revealed before, and he wasn't sure what to do. He gnawed at the inside of his cheek for a few seconds. "How did you get to Skyrim?"

Her shoulders tensed immediately and he knew he'd said something wrong. "Another time."

"Have I upset you?" He frowned.

"Let me finish my letters, husband," she said in a small voice.

Awkward silence settled in, and Vilkas wanted to slap himself. Of course he upset her. It seemed to be a talent of his. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to take too much."

She seemed a bit surprised at his apology.

"I appreciate...when you open up to me," he said, clearing his throat. "Even a little bit. You don't...You don't have to tell me everything at once."

There was more silence, and he was worried his apology hadn't been enough. It must have been difficult for her, reliving the attack at Helgen and telling him something so personal. He hadn't considered the possibility that perhaps her past could even be_ painful_ for her, that she didn't want to reminisce about something like that if she didn't have to. By speaking to him about this at all, it showed she was really trying, and there he was barging ahead like a blundering idiot, demanding more. Suddenly, there was a warmth on his cheek and a hand in his hair. The warmth was her lips, pressed to his skin tenderly, and when she pulled away she looked straight into his eyes. This was the longest time she had been so close to him.

"Thank you," she murmured.

She turned her attention back to her letters, and he touched his fingers to his cheek, smiling slightly. He still wanted to know about Paarthurnax and what they had discussed, but if worse came to worse he could always have a private conversation that night after they went home.

* * *

A/N: The reason for Aveline's debt to Hadvar is finally revealed to Vilkas. It certainly seems like she is softening to him, and he is beginning to understand her...but how much longer will this last?


	16. Little Minx

"_IIS SLEN NUS_!"

Vilkas leapt from his seat, running toward the outside training area behind Jorrvaskr, while Farkas and Aela turned in their seats with wide eyes. Vilkas had recognized the voice, not the Shout, and was floored to see Aveline standing tall in front of a frozen training dummy. The entire dummy was encased in ice and his wife wore a proud, satisfied grin. She gave the dummy a nod as if addressing a worthy opponent, and turned when Farkas thundered out to join his brother in staring.

"I'm sorry if I frightened you both," she said, taking in their expressions. When they continued to stare—Farkas in awe and Vilkas in growing rage—she added, "I learned the last word of a Shout and hadn't had an opportunity to test its effects."

"That's..." breathed Farkas.

Vilkas gritted his teeth at the boyish admiration his brother exuded, and instead addressed Aveline. "It's nearly dark. What reason could you have for using it this late? Your voice carries when you Shout, Aveline—"

Farkas turned his slack-jawed gaze on Vilkas. "You've heard her Shout before? She hardly ever uses it! Have you witnessed her battling a dragon? She must be _marvelous_ against a dragon—"

Vilkas fought against a wave of pride that washed over him at Farkas' words. He had to remain stern. Aveline had never done something so irrational before and it was worrying him. Like most of his feelings toward her which he had yet to decipher, worrying about her made him angry. There was a series of loud bangs at the entry door to the mead hall. The two brothers turned, attention drawn from their strange Harbinger, as Aela stood to answer it.

Outside stood three Whiterun guards, the first of whom spoke gruffly, "Was that you, Dragonborn?"

Aveline stepped into the mead hall, brushing invisible dirt from the front of her leather armor and straightening her shoulders. "Yes, it was."

"I'd advise you against that, Dragonborn," the guard continued. Behind his helmet, his eyes shifted between each of the Companions warily, gauging their reactions as he scolded their leader. "It's unsettling to the townspeople."

Aveline's expression evened out and she gave them a solemn nod. "Of course. It was thoughtless of me. I apologize." Her lips turned up just slightly. "Thank you, gentlemen, for performing your duties so admirably."

"Erm, yes, well..." The guard shuffled back and forth, flustered, and his fellows seemed equally embarrassed.

Aveline strode up to the doorway, still with that regal slight-smile, and said, "Have a lovely night."

"Y-yes, you too, er..." The guard appeared to be too flummoxed to address her as Dragonborn again, and he looked like he would rather call her "Lady".

Aveline offered them another goodbye and closed the door. Farkas was holding his stomach, chortling healthily, and even Aela was having a good laugh—Vilkas, however, crossed his arms and fixed her with a light frown.

"It wasn't necessary for you to charm them like that," he muttered.

"I don't know what you mean, husband." Her expression was coy, but he knew she was incredibly aware of the power she held. After all, she'd used it on him flawlessly before.

"Of course you don't," he said under his breath.

Aela walked over to him and punched his shoulder. "Don't be so sour, Vilkas!"

"Yes, Vilkas," said Aveline. Both he and Aela turned to stare at her, watching the mischief barely concealed in her eyes. Vilkas had seen it once, before the meeting with Paarthurnax, and he was wary of it. "You really mustn't be in such poor spirits." Her eyes flicked to something just over his shoulder.

He turned over his left shoulder just in time to meet Farkas' laughing eyes as he dumped a tankard of ale over Vilkas' head.

"Farkas!" Vilkas roared, wiping the liquid from his eyes.

Farkas held up both hands in surrender, letting out huge guffaws. "I didn't think you'd let your guard down, I really didn't!"

Vilkas swung his gaze to Aveline, who was smiling widely now, and he realized her goading had been his distraction. He got a slight pang when he realized the level of communication between his wife and his brother if Farkas had been able to get her on board without speaking, but he pushed it away.

"You little minx," he said in a low growl, unable to stop his responding grin at her playful deviousness. She had never been playful before—_Don't overthink it._ "Come here."

She laughed as he lunged for her, enveloping her and placing a biting kiss—all teeth and tongue—upon her mouth. She pushed at his chest, twisting away from him, and shook her head when he released her.

"I must see to dinner." She turned her attention to Farkas and Aela. "I asked Vilkas to ensure everyone is in attendance. We're having a feast tonight. It's been too long since we were all together."

It didn't bother him that she could address the other two as if she hadn't just been kissed. He expected it from her nature. His brother was still laughing, but Aela was grinning smugly at him with her arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.

"Change your tune about her, Vilkas?" she asked slyly.

Vilkas shrugged, trying to play it off. His face betrayed him—he could feel the warmth that burned his cheeks. "She's my wife. I might as well make the most of my situation."

Aela's eyebrow raised further, but she left without saying anything else. Farkas shook his head, regaining his composure.

"What did you two do in Solitude?" Farkas asked, grinning and tossing his brother a wink.

Vilkas rolled his eyes. "She had a meeting with General Tullius."

"Of the Imperial Legion?" Farkas got himself and his brother a bottle of mead. He handed it to Vilkas and took a large swig of his own. "What did he want with Aveline?"

"He..." Vilkas paused. Was it wise to tell someone? It was Aveline's business. He frowned at himself. She and Farkas were good friends—it was likely she would tell him anyway, and Farkas knew for the most part when to keep his mouth shut. It wouldn't do any harm. "He wishes for her to join the Legion and fight against the Stormcloaks."

Farkas' eyes clouded as he furrowed his brow, thinking it over in his mind. Vilkas could practically see the cogs turning in his brother's brain as he considered what this could mean.

"Did she agree?" Farkas questioned. "Has she joined them?"

Vilkas shook his head. "She told Tullius she would get back to him within the week with her answer."

"Well, do you think she's going to?"

Vilkas stared at his mead bottle, eyes tracing the label as he tried to keep his thoughts from over-analyzing. He took a drink. "I don't know," he said finally.

He reached into the pouch at his waist, touching the ring he'd forged in Solitude. He still had yet to find the proper time—or proper courage—to give it to her. He had been wearing his own, but if she had noticed it, she hadn't said anything. A thought surfaced in his mind. He didn't want her to go to war. She had handled Alduin, she was a beautiful and skilled fighter, but he was overwhelmed by the feeling that if she would go to war she wouldn't come back.

_Don't join them, Aveline. The civil war is not your duty. You fulfilled your duty to Skyrim. Stay here, where I can look after you, fight beside you. Stay our Harbinger._

The thought was foolish and sentimental, but no matter how he pushed it away it resurfaced stubbornly. His brother was talking about something, nudging his arm and laughing, but Vilkas was unfocused. Firelight danced across the glass of his bottle, and he realized something with a sinking dread: he had deep, most likely unrequited, feelings for Aveline.

* * *

A/N: I know this is a short chapter, but a lot is about to happen in this story so think of this as a kind of...transition.


	17. The Drunk and the Bigot

He passed through most of their feast in a fog. The Companions were having a grand time—Aveline had cooked them quite the meal, which surprised most of them, and even got out some of the remaining Cyrodilic brandy she had imported for Kodlak and Skjor's funeral. She stood to make a toast, and Vilkas watched her expression carefully. For a moment she seemed somber and grave, as if she were going to say something of extreme importance. In a brief moment of hesitation, where he watched uncertainty flicker across her eyes, she smiled and simply toasted the Companions. Her toast raised a cheer from them and the feast went on, but Vilkas was intensely curious of what she had almost said instead.

After dinner, he grabbed her arm, intending to pull her into her Jorrvaskr quarters for a private word. She looked at him, her lips parting as she began to question him, but they were interrupted. A drunken Torvar stumbled up to the them, throwing his arm around Vilkas' neck.

"Going to have a private moment, hm?" he slurred loudly, laughing. "Come on, Vilkas, it's obvious to everyone you're not _fucking_ her." The mead hall had been awash with noise, several different pleasant conversations at once, but it became deathly quiet as Torvar's words rang out.

Vilkas clenched his fists, letting go of Aveline's arm. He knew Torvar wouldn't remember this in the morning, knew he would regret it and apologize profusely when someone informed him of what he had said, and Vilkas tried to reel back his anger.

"You two don't act like you've slept together at _all_," Torvar continued, unaware of Vilkas' growing rage. "No one else wants to say it but we _know_." He laughed again and waggled his finger at Aveline. "Besides, great Harbinger, everyone knows you're too much of a_ prude_."

Vilkas bit the inside of his cheek, determined not to egg Torvar on, but his response spilled from his mouth before he could stop it. "It must be embarrassing, Torvar, that she spurned your obvious advances, but I will not take you insulting our Harbinger." Vilkas couldn't help the smirk that tugged at his lips. "Perhaps if you didn't always reek of liquor..."

Torvar's eyes narrowed. "If you're so grand, Vilkas, answer this: Are you fucking your wife?" Now it was Torvar's turn to smirk. "Or, perhaps, is she getting it from someone else?"

Vilkas' rage bubbled over and he reared back to punch the other man—however, before he could, there was a crackle of electricity and Torvar was thrown backward. He smacked against the opposite wall of the mead hall, crumpling to the floor with a loud, pained groan. Vilkas swung to Aveline, who had been so silent he had almost forgotten she was there. Lightning enveloped her hand, concentrated in her palm. Her expression was cold and firm, and he realized what had happened; she had used some kind of lightning spell against Torvar.

"It's a beginner's spell," she said, her voice loud and clear and authoritative. She gathered everyone's attention within just a few syllables. "The most weak and base of magic. He is lucky I didn't train harder at destruction spells." Her eyes were narrowed. "He is fine." As if to solidify her point, Torvar groaned again and attempted to pull himself up. In the end, Ria scrambled over to help him. "He will be sore for quite some time. Let that serve as a lesson to him that he should learn to hold his tongue, as well as his alcohol."

With those words, Aveline trained her eyes to Vilkas. His anger had fled, replaced by surprise, and he couldn't help his slack-jawed look.

"I believe you were about to ask for a word, Vilkas," she said calmly, and she turned on her heel and descended into Jorrvaskr's quarters.

Vilkas, shell-shocked, surveyed the scene in the mead hall briefly before following her. Farkas gave him a look that said he would take care of it, and Aela nodded at him. No one seemed particularly upset at Aveline's handling of Torvar, but the surprise in the room was evident—their Harbinger had never responded with force or magic before.

He closed the door behind him, watching Aveline's emotionless face. She asked him what he had wanted to talk about, but he merely shook his head. She rubbed her temples, her brow twitching.

"It seems I've been losing control today," she whispered. "I apologize, Vilkas. I will offer further apologies to the Companions."

"What's going on?" he asked, stepping toward her. "Is it the dragon souls again?"

She nodded, inhaling deeply.

"I have a question," Vilkas said. He hesitated, and then continued. "You have...slipped quite a few times since our trip. In battle, I mean. Where have you been hiding that fire, Aveline?"

Aveline just stared at him, her face more closed off than it had been in months, and he felt a painful sense of loss.

"Sometimes, when I allow my emotions free reign in battle, I'm overwhelmed by my own fury." Her voice was firm, as if she were daring him to defy her. "It's the dragon souls battling for control. If I lose control, if I allow them to take over, I will lose myself. It will only get harder the more dragons I slay, the more souls I absorb, the more Shouts I learn. If I'm not careful, I'll lose my sanity completely, Vilkas."

He balked at her. It had never occurred to him that being the Dragonborn came with such risks. "Then, why, those times with me—" _Why did you allow your control to slip?_

"Because I knew that you wouldn't let it happen." She started to smile, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. "You bring me back to myself, Vilkas. You always have, whether you realized or not."

For a second, he felt like his heart stopped. In a rush of sudden movement he would never be able to justify, he was crushing her body again his. He spoke into her hair, "Why do you say things like that to me, Aveline? Stop pretending like you care." _It's starting to kill me._

"Vilkas?" she questioned.

He could hear the confusion in her voice, but he only held her tighter. "You open up to me, you say things like that—Aveline, if you don't stop, I'll—" _If you don't stop, I'll fall..._

"Vilkas..."

He was kissing her before he could think any more of it. He pushed her against the wall, barely registering that she was trying to push him away. He brought his lips down to her neck, and the moment her mouth was free, she began to speak.

"Vilkas, stop," she said, trying to twist away from him. "Vilkas. Don't—"

He ripped her dress down the neckline, his hands rough and demanding. Why wouldn't she let him touch her? Why was she so disgusted by him?

"Vilkas, that's not—"

He hadn't realized that he'd been speaking out loud. "Then why? Why do you act like you do but refuse me anything else?"

Her eyes shot fire at him, and she pushed him so hard he stumbled back. "Are you truly so unhappy, Vilkas, because I refuse to have sex with you?"

He sighed in frustration, knowing how it must seem, realizing what he had been doing, and tried to backtrack. She wouldn't let him.

"Does what Torvar said hold truth?" she asked. Her voice was calm but poisonous. "Do you think me a _prude_?"

"Aveline—"

"If it's such a burden to you, Vilkas, you always have the option of taking a woman." She glared at him. "I refuse to be another of your conquests."

"I told you, I won't take another woman!" he shouted. Why couldn't she understand? Why couldn't she see? She wouldn't be another conquest for him.

"Why not?" she demanded.

"Because I care about you! You're not one of them!" His breathing was heavy, shoulders heaving, and he squeezed his eyes shut so as not to see the rejection he was sure would be on her face. "I care about you, Aveline."

"You hate me." Her statement was steady. She truly believed it.

"I did," he admitted. "I hated you for tricking me, for playing with my emotions, because in a way, I've always..." He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "I care about you, in a way so confusing that I don't know what to do about it, especially when you can be so hot and cold with me. What am I supposed to do when you act like this?"

Almost without thinking, he drew the ring from his pocket. He rested his forehead against hers, turning the ring over in his fingers.

"I had this made," he said quietly. "When we were in Solitude, after you told me why you didn't like your wedding band." He handed it to her awkwardly, unable to meet her eyes. "Take it."

She didn't move and he felt desperation choke his voice.

"Take it," he repeated.

She took the ring, staring at it with shadowed gaze—he couldn't tell what she was thinking. _This is a rejection,_ he thought. _It has to be._

He turned away from her, covering his face again. "Let's not fight in front of the others."

He left before she could verbalize her rejection or disagree with him. His steps thumped through the mead hall. He planted himself next to his brother and took a healthy gulp of liquor. Farkas raised his eyebrows, appraising him, with a healthy alcohol-induced flush on his face.

"You alright, brother?"

Vilkas grunted, took another swig, and grumbled, "Do we have anything stronger?"

Farkas laughed and clapped Vilkas strongly on the back. "Athis! Bring my brother something stronger."

Athis chuckled and brought Vilkas something from the stores beneath Jorrvaskr, which he drank greedily. Aveline came up with him, having changed into another dress—did she keep clothes here?—and poured herself a small glass of spiced wine. She sat opposite Vilkas, sipping delicately, and his heart stuttered when he saw his ring on her finger.

"I hope you aren't trying to get my husband drunk, Farkas." She spoke with a strained smile, warmth absent from her tone. She was trying to be lighthearted, trying to act as they had acted even just that morning in front of Farkas, and she was failing—it was easier for her to fake a lack of emotion than to fake real feelings. She remained cool, collected and quiet, while Farkas did his best to loosen the tension in his brother's shoulders.

Vignar laughed boisterously at something Farkas said, slamming his hand down on the table. His meaty palm shook the wooden table, jostling it until a plate near the edge was knocked onto the floor. It shattered, a fact which the the other Companions ignored. Tilma came over, grumbling with a sour face, and swept the shards.

"It's like looking after children," she snapped. She appealed to Aveline, who had begun to frown. "Why can't they act more like you?"

"We can't all be as refined as our lady Harbinger," said Farkas with a wide grin.

She met his eyes and her lips twitched. Vilkas felt his scowl growing and chugged his drink.

"Speaking of children," grunted Vignar, adding a chuckle, "when shall you retire, Aveline?"

The merriment at the dining table halted completely. Aela glared fiercely at the old Grey-Mane, but everyone else seemed confused. Aveline was stone-faced, taking a nonchalant sip of her wine.

"I don't understand your meaning, Vignar." Another sip. "Do explain."

"You can't rightly expect to be a mother and fulfill your role as Harbinger."

Vilkas stared at his elder. The sexist old coot had to be joking. He hadn't seriously just brought this up, had he?

"My decision to hand over my role as Harbinger will have little to do with my decision to be a mother." Her response was as stiff as Vilkas imagined it would be. _I need more liquor._ "You will take care, Vignar, to respect me as your Harbinger."

Vignar looked unhappy with her response, but in all honesty, what had he expected her to say? Farkas took in the tense atmosphere and plastered on a smile.

"Should I look forward to being an uncle?" he asked.

Vilkas nearly groaned. He loved his brother, but there was a reason Skjor used to say that_ Vilkas_ had Ysgramor's brains...

"There are many factors to consider when making such an important decision," Aveline answered lightly.

"_I'd_ like to be considered as well." Vilkas muttered it under his breath and took another drink. When he set the bottle back down on the table, he saw all eyes were on him. Oops. Had he said that too loudly?

"Of course, husband," said Aveline. Her expression was tight. He knew she wanted him to drop it. "It's a given that your input be considered."

"Really," he said. "This is news to me, as we've never _once_ discussed it."

"Do you really think now is the time, husband?" Her gaze was dangerous. He would only make her angry if he pressed on.

"Farkas asked a simple question, why not give him a simple answer?" he snapped.

"Unfortunately, the matter_ isn't_ that simple," she countered.

"Why not? Answer him, Aveline. Children: yes or no?"

"Not now, Vilkas."

"Answer the question!" He was shouting now, standing from the bench and leaning over the table at her.

"It is not that _simple_—"

"Of course not," he growled. "It never is with you, is it, Aveline? Although, I suppose you're right, and after all—you have to be able to _stomach_ the other person before you can perform the action for conception."

His words rang through the mead hall. Farkas' expression was conflicted as he stood and laid a hand on his brother's arm.

"Vilkas," he began gently.

Vilkas shrugged him off. Aveline set down her glass and stood. Aela tried to speak to her, but Aveline held up her hand to silence the other warrior.

"Outside," Aveline said. "Now. Some fresh air will clear your head."

"My head is clear—"

Her eyes, however, showed she would not be deterred. "Outside, husband."

* * *

A/N: Aw shit, trouble's a-brewin'. Both of them are equally at fault in different ways and they both know how to cut the other one deeply. Thoughts?


	18. Timing

A/N: Short chapter because something big is about to happen.

* * *

He nearly threw up his arms when he followed her outside, and he could feel the concerned gazes of the other Companions—most namely, his brother. Farkas probably had the absurd concern that this would fracture the Companions if Vilkas and Aveline didn't reconcile. Sure they had been venomous with each other before, but there was nothing so vicious as a marriage gone sour. Not that ours had been very sweet to begin with, he thought bitterly. Vilkas wasn't concerned his marriage would affect the Companions. Aveline would never allow personal feelings, even feelings of pure carnal hatred, to interfere with her duties, and if anything was going to fracture them it would be if she decided to go to war.

He expected her to lead him back to Breezehome, but instead she stopped in front of the Gildergreen, the wind whipping her raven hair. He remembered the state the tree had been in before Aveline's arrival—it had been one of the first things she improved about Whiterun. Now it stood beautiful and flowering in the breeze, petals descending around her. He thought briefly that this was where he would've liked to propose to his wife.

Aveline crossed her arms over her chest in a gesture he'd never seen on her before and faced him with a stern expression. "Was it really necessary, husband, to address this at dinner? In front of our shield-brothers and sisters?"

"Vignar was the one who brought it up," Vilkas snapped. Why was she blaming him for it? If she had just answered Farkas' goddamn question...

"If you wanted to discuss the matter with me, the feasting table was not the place."

He gaped at her. "You're kidding me, right?" She furrowed her brow and he erupted into an angry laugh. "Where is the proper place, Aveline? I can never talk to you about anything! The moment I think we're getting somewhere, reaching some kind of understanding, you pull even farther away from me. Why is that, Aveline, huh?"

"You want to talk to me about this?" Aveline, as he should have expected, ignored his last words. "Talk now, Vilkas. This is your chance. I would prefer that in the future you pull me aside in private."

He let out a roar. How could he explain to her that she was so unapproachable? He covered his eyes with his hand and shouted, "I want children, Aveline!"

He could practically hear her stiffen. "That's unfortunate, Vilkas, considering...what was it you said? That you must be able to stomach your partner in order to conceive a child?"

Vilkas flinched. He hadn't realized how his words could have harmed her.

"You seemed able to stomach me quite easily in the past," she continued harshly, and he felt a rush of embarrassment. "Or were you simply desperate for a woman's flesh?"

"What I said was cruel," he admitted through clenched teeth. "I didn't mean it to be..."

"To be what, Vilkas? You didn't mean to insult me? To completely undo any connection we may have achieved, to erase any comfort we may have gained together?"

He opened and closed his mouth, at a loss for words. She met his eyes with fierceness.

"I put on this ring," she held up her hand and his heart skipped as he saw his ring glinting in the moonlight, "because I believed your sincerity. I believed that somehow, despite everything, that you had really come to care for me. I have tried to make you care for me in any way possible, Vilkas, through all our years as Companions, and you rejected my every attempt however minor. I grew to respect and admire you—as a man, as a warrior—" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "—as my husband."

She paused, perhaps waiting for him to respond, but his mind was blank. All he could do was stare in disbelief.

"You think you're better than me," she said next. "A better person than me. You believe I'm fake, a pretender, an ice queen." Her expression turned venomous. "You're just as much of a pretender as I am, but I have the decency to recognize it." She stepped toward him, their noses nearly touching. "You had the audacity to lie to me, to act as though you have any feelings for me other than contempt—"

He pulled her close to his chest. She struggled against him, using all of her Dragonborn strength, but he held onto her as if his life depended on it. "Aveline, stop."

"Let go of me, Vilkas! I will use the Thu'um!" She continued to fight, pushing hard against his chest, so hard he was sure he'd bruise beneath his armor.

He wrapped his arm around her, the other holding the back of her head, and he crushed her against him. "Aveline, please, listen to me."

She stopped struggling, her body going limp and her shoulders shaking as if she were sobbing. "Why are you doing this to me? Is it fun for you? To watch me squirm? Is it payback?"

"Aveline," he said again. He stroked back her hair. "I wasn't lying. I handle things poorly, and our situation infuriates me, but I was not lying." He took a deep breath. "I was serious, Aveline. I want to try being a real husband to you. And yes, someday, I would like us to have a child."

"That involves an action you would be loathe to perform with me," she said.

"I told you, that was cruel and untrue." He held her tighter for a fraction of a second. "Why would I have touched you, kissed you, if that were true?"

When she pushed away from him once more, he let her escape his grasp. "Let's have a breather, Vilkas," she whispered. "I'm tired of fighting."

"Wait," he said, desperate for some kind of answer. "What are your thoughts? Tell me I'm not the only one who wants this to work. Tell me I'm not the only one who wants a family."

She looked at him, and for the first time he saw true hurt and conflict in her eyes. She opened her mouth to say something, and—

"Vilkas! Aveline!"

Vilkas groaned aloud at his brother's voice. Why now? Farkas had such terrible timing...

"Are you two almost finished?" Farkas shuffled his feet sheepishly. "We're...missing you at the feasting table."

"Yes," said Aveline quietly. "We're done for now."

"You go on ahead." Vilkas watched her, the way her body moved, the way her eyes glinted. "I think I'll head home for the night."

"Are you sure, brother?" Farkas gave him a confused glance, voice concerned and questioning, but Aveline had already floated away towards Jorrvaskr.

Vilkas gave his brother a weak smile and a nod, and Farkas followed behind her. Vilkas felt suddenly very tired, and turned his feet towards Breezehome.

* * *

A/N: So the chapter after this is going to be a bit of a game-changer (of that I'm 98% positive). I'd like your thoughts on this and the progression of their relationship. A really intense next step (which I think they've had coming for quite a few chapters) is coming up next.


	19. Let Me

A/N: Prepare yourselves for some...angsty, tasteful (in word choice anyway, I didn't go too dirty), mind-boggling maturity in this chapter. It's not what many of you expected or hoped for, but I'm asking you all to trust me.

Thank you all so much for the support you've given me through this. I'm extremely proud of this work and I thank each of you for your words of encouragement and critique.

**Disclaimer:** You can choose to skip this chapter completely if you are weirded out by sexual scenarios. It will be mentioned in the next chapter (non-explicitly).

And don't worry all. The story is far from over.

* * *

Why did it have to be like this?

He sat on the edge of the bed, bare-chested and clad only in a loose pair of trousers. He rested his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. Those moments of warmth she showed him—he wanted them to be consistent. He wanted her warmth for the rest of his life.

Did she not trust him? Why did she still have walls up?

He supposed he had done a good enough job himself of keeping her at arms' length. If she had trust issues, he had only made them worse.

When she appeared in the doorway, dressed in a nightgown, he expected another fight. He was braced for it, mouth half open in a pre-apology. Truly, the last thing he expected was for her to adopt a soft expression and allow her gown to drop to the floor. He sat straight up in bed, nerves tight and ready to break at the slightest touch, as she flowed toward him. She nudged him gently back onto the bed, and he regained his voice long enough to utter, "Aveline? What…"

She shushed him, leaning forward for a kiss. He groaned aloud at the feeling—it was exactly how it had been the night of their wedding, her body warm to his, her kisses responsive and sensual. He clutched her body close to him, desperate for more of the feeling, desperate for her as any man could be desperate for a woman. By the Gods, how long had it been for him? He wondered in an uncharacteristic moment of humor if he could even remember what to do, it had been so long since he had.

This was a dream. There's no way this would happen in real life. He regained some of his sense when her fingers began to remove his pants. He didn't miss how her hands shook.

"Aveline, wait." He grabbed at her wrists, halting her. "What are you doing?"

Her cheeks a bright red, but her expression was determined._ I have to be dreaming._

"Aveline."

She kissed him again instead of answering. She removed his pants entirely, hesitating as if she wasn't sure what to do next.

If this was a dream, he was damn well going to enjoy it.

He pulled her back in for a bruising kiss. His hands didn't waste time exploring her—they would have time for that later, because once she let him do this she would never again keep herself from him. Of that he was _sure_. His mouth trailed down to her neck, covering her with kisses and long laves of his tongue, and when she straddled him with her perfect ivory legs, he was already painfully hard. His hands settled on her hips, tanned and battle-hardened fingers splaying out over her skin, and when she grasped him in her small, soft hand—causing his eyes to roll back with a moan—he saw just a flash, a _flicker_ of hesitation, before she lowered herself rather quickly onto him.

He had only a moment to wish she had gone slower, allowed them to savor the moment, before he felt the resistance and subsequent give within her body. She trembled above him, eyes squeezed tight and teeth digging into her lower lip, and he felt his eyes widen to a comical size.

"Aveline," he breathed, trying to speak through the pleasure of her tight warmth enveloping him. She was wet and ready, but _gods_ was she tight.

She took slow, deep breaths, her expression determined. Her palms were placed flat on his chiseled stomach, slick with sweat, and she used the leverage she found there to lift herself slowly. He watched where they joined, seeing more than feeling the small trickle of maiden's blood run down her thigh onto his pelvis. She lowered herself again, making a small noise in the back of her throat—he tried to convince himself it was pleasure, but he knew that was false. His grip on her hips tightened as something surged forth in him. He was claiming her, feeling her before any other man. He was her first, he would be her last. A feeling of possessiveness, relief, and something unidentifiable rocketed to the surface of his mind, and he growled with renewed vigor as he flipped them.

She released her held breath in surprise, eyes gazing up at him as her hair fanned out over the pillows. He kissed and nipped at her neck, still and unmoving within her, his hands beneath her arced back as he held her to him.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he whispered in her ear, caressing her soft skin.

"I don't like being vulnerable," she responded finally, the first words she had said. Her eyes fluttered closed, fingers tangled gently in his hair. "You're so…experienced, I assumed you would see it as a detriment to our marriage. What would a man who has had so many women want with a virgin?"

He realized in a rush of guilt that he had made her feel this way with his past conquests. It was his fault she hadn't wanted to give herself to him. If he really thought about it, from the beginning of their marriage, maybe even the beginning of their acquaintance, she had done little, subtle things to try and make this easier for him. And he, in return, had hated her.

He wanted to shout at her for her stupidity—there were a multitude of ways in which she was already pleasing him. Allowing him to be the one to take her virginity was pleasing enough. Did she really believe she needed to have the bedroom skills of a harlot to make him happy? He couldn't find much volume in his throat for more than an inarticulate groan as her walls around him began to make him lose his fragile shreds of control. Soon, he knew, he would lose it, pounding mercilessly into her fresh, supple, _virgin_ body, and that wasn't what she deserved for her first time. That wasn't what he wanted her to associate with bedding him.

He moved slowly, bottling his passion ever so precariously, his labored breath against her neck. He placed gentle kisses to the skin there, hoping beyond anything else that his actions could convey what he couldn't bring to words at the moment. Her arms snaked around him, holding him to her, which he took as encouragement.

He angled his thrusts a little differently, a little deeper, and her bare chest brushed against his as she arched her back with a surprised, feminine grunt. He murmured her name as she wrapped her legs around him, finally having found his voice.

"By the Gods," he whispered, pulling back slightly to fill her body again. "You'll undo me early, Aveline."

Murmurs of "You're beautiful" and other nothings began to punctuate his movements as he sped up. He waited for another sign of her enjoyment, wish granted as her nails momentarily dug into his back with one particularly powerful thrust.

She brought his lips to hers, moaning in earnest now. He wanted her passion, that volume she'd unleashed on the battlefield. He wanted her moans, her screams, wanted her clawing down his back—He wouldn't get that this night, he feared. She was holding back, still far too sophisticated and graceful to scream his name and moan expletives the way he wanted her to, and he wouldn't last long enough to coax it out of her. Already he felt the beginnings of his orgasm approaching and he steeled himself, staving it off for as long as he could.

Her breath against his skin raised goosebumps on his flesh. "You don't have to be gentle," she said. "You don't have to fake something you don't feel. I'll take whatever you give, Vilkas."

Who was he to deny the wishes of a lady? He let his control slip further, grip on her hips now bruising, and he sucked harshly at the skin of her neck, determined to leave his mark on her for the world to see. Finally, _finally_, he had her. After months of wanting, desiring,_ longing_—he didn't stop to analyze the gravity of his thoughts. He felt himself on the edge of the precipice, hanging on by a thin rope of unwavering control.

"Aveline." He cupped her face with his hand, gently stroking her cheek with his thumb. "Wife." Her eyes flew open—never once had he referred to her directly as such. "Tell me." He bit down on her collarbone. "Tell me how I make you feel."

Her face flushed hotly in embarrassment. "I've never—"

"Tell me how you've wanted me," he groaned. "Tell me how good this feels. Moan my name, _Gods Aveline please_, just moan my name."

Panic shot briefly through her eyes, as though by doing what he was begging of her, she'd lose something. "I can't."

He groaned against her skin. "I'm the only man who's ever touched you, ever pleased you," he grunted, kissing and sucking at her delicate skin. He wanted it peppered with his marks, proof of their joining, because he half believed he would wake to discover it had been a dream. He reveled in the choppy way her sentences spilled from her mouth. "Say it, Aveline. Say how good I make you feel."

His control broke clean in two; he moaned her name into her shoulder as he spilled himself inside of her, body shuddering in the most prolonged orgasm he'd ever experienced. He came down from his high with a delayed, startling realization that chilled him as though he'd taken a swim in the Sea of Ghosts—he had finished before her.

Dread filled him as he looked down at the panting woman, her heartbeat pounding restlessly beneath her skin loud enough for him to hear it. He expected her to look disappointed, angry, even cold and distant as she always did; nothing could have prepared him for the expression on her face. Her body seemed aglow in the light from the single candle in the room. She was looking at him so softly it felt as though it could break his heart.

"I'm sorry," he stated, voice nearly breaking as her soft hand touched his cheek, and he cursed himself inwardly for the weakness he felt.

"For what?" she asked. "There's nothing to be sorry for, Vilkas…"

She returned to kissing him, hands flitting across his body, her touch setting him on fire. He groaned at the tentative touch of her tongue to his. His mind spun as she drew his oxygen from him, _became_ his oxygen.

_What does this mean? What does this mean to her? She's given me her virginity, does that mean that she..._

He confused himself with those thoughts and with the way he'd been reacting to her during this. He was so much gentler with her. She wasn't one of his conquests. Did that mean that he…?

"Don't be sorry," she whispered to him again. He tried to touch her, to finish her—_I can't believe I failed so horribly_—but she pushed his hand away, the softness leaving her expression. "You don't have to."

How could he explain to her that he _wanted_ to?

"Let me," he whispered. "Just let me."

He touched her with purpose, trying to smother the shame he felt. After a few moments, her breathing stuttered, and her hips twitched up.

"Vilkas, you really don't—"

_Let me._

He tried not to think of how he must have hurt her, how sore she must be, and he kept his touches light. He just wanted her to let go, to feel how she had let him feel—

A small moan from her throat signaled her completion, and her arched back settled down onto the mattress. He crawled over her, looking down at her as she inhaled deeply.

"Well?" he breathed, stroking her face with feather-light touches. "How…How was it?"

She was looking at him through heavy lidded eyes, irises peeking through her thick lashes. He cupped her face in both hands, begging her to focus on him, but he could see that the exhaustion of the day mixed with their coupling—and the fact that she had probably drunk her nightly sleeping tea—had decimated the woman's energy. "Aveline, what does this mean? What does this make us?"

He wanted desperately for her to awaken, to answer his questions, but as she shook her head and allowed her eyes to close, muttering his name, he knew he would get no answers tonight. He sighed heavily, holding her to him as the delicate woman slept—if she was going to regret this in the morning, he was going to make it last for himself.

Did this change anything? Was this an apology or had she truly wanted it? How would they act with each other now? He tried to keep from worrying, but it slipped into the back of his brain regardless.

Feeling her slim body relax into sleep at his side, his arm around her warm, soft flesh, filled a void within him so completely that fear edged its way into his mind and he nearly pushed her away. Instead, he lay back into the pillows, closed his eyes, and willed her to still be there when he awoke.

...

She wasn't.

* * *

A/N: This wasn't the lovey-dovey first time you mostly expected. It didn't fit them as a couple. As you'll learn, Aveline has her reasons. Also, I wrote her as being a virgin from the very start, and I think it fits. I hope I didn't turn any of you away from the story. This was the most realistic way I could write them (also, I rewrote this section several times).

I would love to hear your thoughts.


	20. Decided

He awoke to an empty bed, an empty house, and his chest tightened. He put his head in his hands—_inhale, exhale, calm down, just calm_—

He let loose a roar, slamming his fists against the bed. How dare she? _How dare she?_

He thundered out of the house, rage coming off of him in waves. He passed Ysolda and Farkas standing in the market, and Farkas physically took a step back at the expression on his brother's face. He followed Vilkas, jogging to keep up with his hurried, angry pace, even as Ysolda called after them.

"Brother, what's wrong?" asked Farkas, brow knitted in confusion.

All Vilkas could see was red. He wasn't even sure how he knew where he was going—muscle memory, maybe. He was only half sure he was going to Jorrvaskr. "She toyed with me, played with my emotions like the wicked, deceitful wench she is! She's such a good little actress, that lying, _hateful_ woman—"

"Brother." Farkas' eyes were wide, concern obvious on his face.

"She...She..." _She seduced me, lied to me, made me feel something for her and then just ripped it all away. I should have figured. I should have known._

"Have you spoken to her about what happened?" Farkas asked. He appealed to his brother gently as Vilkas' steps slowed, placing a large hand on his shoulder. "Maybe this is all just a misunderstanding."

Vilkas stopped completely. A misunderstanding? Was he overreacting?_ She left you before you woke up, the same way you did to all of those bar wenches, all of the poor girls you used and threw away. That's what she thinks of you._

But there was a part of him, no matter how minor, that doubted that was really what she thought. Maybe she was scared, afraid to face him after showing her vulnerability. He swallowed his anger, inhaling slowly.

"Vilkas," Farkas urged gently.

Vilkas lifted his hand to his face, grinding the heel of his palm against his forehead. _She was a virgin. For Ysgramor's sake, a virgin! Is that why she never talked of children? Did she think I wouldn't have her? Did she think she would die a virgin?_

"I'm sure you'll feel better about it if you just talk to her," Farkas continued.

_Will I? Will she even answer me?_

"I mean, it was a surprise to all of us—"

Vilkas blinked several times, gaping at his brother. "What?" Did she tell them? How did they know? "What do you mean, a surprise to all of you?"

Farkas frowned. "None of us expected her to resign, but I'm sure if you just talk to her about it—"

"Wait, what?" Vilkas' voice cracked. "She resigned?"

Farkas hesitated, looking as if he had said something he shouldn't. "She...She didn't tell you?"

"Tell me? No, she didn't fucking tell me!" Vilkas exploded. "She never fucking tells me!"

"Vilkas—"

"Where is she?"

Farkas looked conflicted, flinching in the face of his brother's rage. "You can't approach her like this, brother—"

"Why did she resign?" Vilkas' booming voice filled the air, sure to wake anyone who thought they could manage a few extra hours' sleep that morning. "Did she have a reason for doing something so _stupid_?"

"She..." Farkas seemed pained. "She's going to war, Vilkas. She's decided to fight for the Imperial Legion."

For the barest of moments, his heart stopped. "When?" he breathed.

"Last night, after you went home. We all thought...We all thought she'd told you, we thought you knew...Shor's bones, Vilkas, she made you her replacement!"

Vilkas' vision went hazy, and before he realized it, he had taken off towards the mead hall. Farkas called after him, but Vilkas paid his brother no mind.

"She must have had a reason!" Farkas shouted.

_Oh, I would just love to hear it._

Vilkas stormed through the door of Jorrvaskr, ignoring the incredulous glances of Ria and Athis and the pained groan of hungover Torvar. He practically threw himself down the stairs to her room, and he didn't let the closed door delay him for long—he kicked it open with so much force that wood splintered.

"That was locked," came a feminine voice.

He stood panting in her doorway, allowing a second to glance back at the door. He had ripped the lock from the frame. "I don't care," he snapped, leveling his eyes back on her.

She was sitting at Kodlak's desk, putting the final touches on a letter. She dunked her quill one last time, tapping it against the rim of the inkwell, and wrote a name on the envelope with careful strokes.

"What are you doing, Aveline?" he demanded. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms, and he could feel his body shaking.

"Writing my letter to Tullius, telling him of my arrival and acceptance of a position within the Imperial Legion." She set down her quill and stood. "If I send it with a swift courier, it should arrive a day or two before I myself do."

"I don't mean that," he said, growling as he stepped up to her. "I don't care about your damned letter. What are you doing, _resigning_ and going off to a war that doesn't involve you!" He was burning up from the inside out, struggling to turn his jumbled thoughts into cohesive questions.

"I assume you also want to ask me why I didn't tell you." Her voice was strangely gentle, and when she spoke again she had quieted considerably. He couldn't help but noticed the warm color on her cheeks. "And why I spent the night with you."

He fumed silently. She didn't need his affirmation.

"I know you won't accept my explanations, but this is all I have to offer you."

She gestured for him to sit, but he refused. He began to pace, and he wondered if his anger would subside if he wore a hole in the floor.

"As for why I've resigned and decided to go to war," she began, "I'll tell you the same thing I told the Companions. The decision wasn't easy for me, you should at least understand that. I thought over my choices very carefully, Vilkas. I discussed it with Paarthurnax, that night we visited the Throat of the World. I was concerned about involving myself in matters of Skyrim politics. I had thought my duty to this land was done. However, he allowed me to realize that my duty was to the people of Skyrim, and as long as they are in jeopardy, my work is unfinished."

She moved about the room, shifting things on her desk, and he realized she had already begun packing.

"You're not native to Skyrim," he said. He was grasping at something to shake her determination. Would she really leave all she had?

"And yet I am your Dragonborn," she countered softly.

"You don't owe these people anything more!"

"On the contrary," she said, "I owe this land my life."

He let loose a strangled cry, desperate to keep control of his anger. "Would you really die, Aveline, for the sake of the Imperials?"

She was shaking her head, and for a moment he thought he had changed her mind. He should have known better.

"Farkas asked me the same thing." She offered up a smile. "You two are more alike than you admit, Vilkas. To answer your question, no, I will not die for the Imperials. It is not for them that I fight. I fight for Skyrim. The fate of this land, and of its people Nord and otherwise, has been in flux for far too long because of this war. I am almost ashamed to have let it go on so long."

Her face hardened. She walked to the far wall, where a map of the country had been tacked up. She stared at it for a moment before removing it from the wall with care and rolling it gingerly.

"Ulfric will never stop fighting," she said. "He believes he deserves to be High King, and nothing will deter him from his mission. I have spoken to the man myself, and he makes no effort to hide his ambition. I understand the cause he preaches—it is an insult to the Nord race that the worship of Talos is illegal. I can understand the outrage. I can understand the draw of Ulfric and his side." A shadow passed over her eyes and she scowled. "However, I cannot understand the slaughter of innocents to prove the worthiness of this cause. I cannot understand the prejudice and the hatred. He must be stopped, Vilkas. The restoration of Talos worship is a righteous motive, but Ulfric uses it as a mask to hide his own lust for power. The Greybeards saw it even then, in his earliest days of training."

She eyed Vilkas evenly and finished, "After the war is over, if the Imperial Legion emerges victorious and I live to see the final battle, I will personally appeal for an amendment to the White-Gold Concordat to re-establish the worship of Talos. Setting that aside, husband, even you can see that years of war have weakened this country. Ulfric will not be able to restore it. I believe Skyrim's best chance of healing and reunification lies with the Imperial Legion."

He huffed for a few moments, pacing the length of the room. Her logic was solid, as was her determination. He could see that she had indeed taken the time to think about the situation quite carefully. What bothered him was that, in this time, she had never consulted _him_. Did she not realize how this affected him?

"In regards to why I didn't tell you, the answer is quite simple."

Her voice startled him to a stop, his eyes drawn back to her.

"I knew you would hate me for my decision," she said. "I hoped you would understand, but I am no fool, Vilkas—I knew quite well you would never accept it. As we hadn't been on the best of terms to start with, I was aware of the consequences of my actions." She looked as if she would laugh, but the expression faded. "Funnily enough, that also answers your other query."

He cocked his head at her. "How?"

"You wanted to know why I slept with you last night." Her face flushed at the mention. "Why I...allowed myself to be so open, only to leave." She lifted her chin, her cheeks pink. "I'm afraid there I have nothing to blame but my own curiosity."

Vilkas' jaw cracked as he grit his teeth. "You toyed with me out of _curiosity_?!" he hissed, advancing on her.

"I didn't mean it like that, Vilkas, and you know it." She glared at him, matching his volume. "I knew how you would feel about me once you learned of my decision to leave and resign. I was being selfish, as I tend to do around you, and I didn't want to leave our marriage wondering."

"Leave...leave our_ marriage_?" he balked.

"There's a very great chance, Vilkas, I will not return from battle alive," she clarified. "I have accepted that. Long ago I accepted the inevitability I would die without experiencing many things. I had an opportunity, and I grabbed for it."

"You're babbling nonsense!" He couldn't fathom his emotions. He was swimming in them—anger, fear, betrayal, guilt, and a softer emotion he was too drained to identify. He thought of her, on the battlefield, healing herself with the extreme precision she always did. She always used too much magicka when healing, preventing scars that wouldn't have mattered,_ didn't_ matter, to anyone but her. What if she did that and exhausted herself? What if she couldn't recover quickly enough? What if, while she was preoccupied healing, a Stormcloak attacked her?

"For so long I hated marriage," she said, unaware of his mental anguish. "The thought of it disgusted me. Because of marriage, I watched my father suffer, I watched my mother transform into a withered angry shell." She lifted her palm to her face, staring at the scar from that night all those weeks ago. "I tried to avoid a marriage like my parents'. I thought if I avoided love, avoided fondness for any man, I could avoid their fate." She met Vilkas' eyes and he saw true remorse. " Instead, I dragged you down with me, and we suffered together regardless, without the benefits of having feelings for each other. If anything, I have made you more miserable than my mother ever made my father."

"Aveline—"

"Let me finish, Vilkas," she interrupted. "You recall the reason I gave for choosing you as my husband?"

He nodded. "You said I was the only one who could handle being the spouse of the Dragonborn."

She gave a small smile, though it slipped from her lips before she began again to speak. "That reason, however true, is not complete. From the moment I arrived in Whiterun, Vilkas, you've been the only man to intrigue me." She finally realized she was still holding onto the rolled map and placed it in a box beside her desk. "I remember, the day after Kodlak welcomed me to the Companions, while everyone was toasting or sparring, there you were. Outside in the training yard by yourself, sitting on the ground by one of the dummies, just watching. I remember meeting your eyes, seeing the disdain on your face, as though nothing I would ever do could impress you, and wondering what you were thinking. That's the only time I have wondered something so earnestly, Vilkas, since I was a child."

He stared at her. She was so...so..._infuriating_. How could she make a confession of such magnitude, of such importance, and be so_ casual_!

She took his silence and nodded once. "In two days, Vilkas, you shall be Harbinger and I shall be out of your hair. Please know that, no matter what you may think, I truly came to care for you and regret my hand in your misery." She stepped toward him with her hand out and a soft look on her face, but she faltered at the last moment. Instead, she breezed past him out the door of the room, leaving him standing stupefied in the center of it.

* * *

A/N: Bomb dropped. Go!


	21. Let It Bleed

Vilkas stepped onto the main floor of the mead hall, still in a haze, to find Aela waiting for him. She was scowling, as she nearly always did these days, with her arms folded across her chest.

"How'd it go?" she asked.

Vilkas raised an eyebrow at her. "To what are you referring?"

Aela rolled her eyes at him and said, "Don't be stupid, Vilkas, you aren't fooling anyone. You went to try and change her mind, didn't you?"

"Not quite," he grumbled.

"How did it go?" she asked again.

"About how you'd expect with her." Vilkas moved to walk past her, but the huntress reached out and grabbed his arm.

"I know she won't change her mind, but I also know you don't want her to go." Aela searched his eyes. "None of us do, Vilkas."

"Then why are you letting her?" he hissed at her.

Aela barked out a laugh. "We both know that's not how she operates. Aveline will do whatever she thinks is best. We can't change her mind. She's leaving no matter what, that much is settled. The real issue is, what are you going to do now?"

Vilkas stared at the redhead. "There's not much I can do, is there."

Aela was scowling at him again, which could only mean he had said the wrong thing. She snorted and turned away as if disgusted. "Look, if you want to be miserable it makes no difference to me. But you two had something going, and if you're dim-witted enough to let her trot off to war alone, I don't want you as our Harbinger."

She walked away from him, and his anger slammed into him. He ran a hand through his slightly-greased hair, grinding his teeth—_When was the last time I bathed?_—and headed toward the back. He needed to hit something, needed to expel this somehow or he would lash out at someone. He realized briefly if he'd still had his curse, his monster would have broken forth hours ago.

He unleashed his fury upon the training dummy, his joints cracking as fists and elbows and knees connected with the burlap. Straw began poking through the coarse fabric, stabbing his skin with each hit, but he kept on. Who did Aela think she was? He had been right-hand to the Harbinger for years. Kodlak had trusted him, Aveline had trusted him, to take care of business as the second in command. Why, now of all times, was Aela questioning his leadership?

He didn't know how long he was out there. His arms throbbed, his knuckles shredded from the wood of the dummy's limbs, and the burlap sack was streaked with his blood. It seemed that no matter his wants, his hopes, his dreams, the world would keep happening without his input. He hadn't wanted to be married, he hadn't wanted to fall for Aveline, he hadn't wanted her to go to war—but no one had cared.

Someone was shouting his name. He heard it as if through a fog. Aveline was leaving the day after tomorrow. She didn't expect to live through it. She would leave believing he hated her, that she had made him nothing but miserable. Would she die with those thoughts in her head? Alduin hadn't killed her, but that was the closest she'd ever been to death in the four years he had known her. She never came out of a battle looking so beaten up, and with the war she seemed so sure of her fate. Would this be how he lost her?

Someone grabbed his arms and held him back. He struggled to hit the dummy, to expel his remaining anger.

"Vilkas! Vilkas, for Shor's sake, stop it!"

"Farkas?" Vilkas gasped out. "Farkas, it's you." He stopped struggling, breathing hard in his brother's strong grip.

Farkas' face was riddled with fear and concern. "Oh shit, Vilkas, what did you do to yourself?"

"It's nothing," he said gruffly.

In truth, it wasn't nothing. He was bleeding profusely down his hands and arms. Farkas squinted at his brother's injuries, taking in the extent of the damage.

"We'll have to get Aveline," Farkas muttered. "She'll need to take a look at this, you know I'm no good with the medical stuff."

Vilkas grunted, ripping himself away from Farkas. "No! Don't need her. Just bandage me up as best you can."

His brother wanted to argue, wanted to insist that they get Aveline—Vilkas could see it in his eyes. Farkas had gotten more comfortable around magic since Aveline had joined them. Five years ago, Farkas would have told him to rub some dirt into it and have some mead. Now, everything more serious than a papercut required Aveline's restoration magic. This reminded Vilkas again of the level of familiarity between his brother and his wife, and that only pissed him off more.

"Vilkas, that looks painful..." Farkas urged.

"Bandage it, or let it bleed," Vilkas ground out through clenched teeth.

Farkas bit his tongue, clumsily bandaging his brother's hands. Vilkas had the fleeting thought that he should have just done it himself, and then he remembered the last time he had bandaged someone's hand. He remembered the softness to her skin, the emptiness in her eyes, and he stomped the thought down.

"Why did you do that, Vilkas?" Farkas asked in a quiet voice. "What reason could you have?"

"I just needed a distraction."

"You've always been intense, brother, but this..." Farkas put a hand over his eyes and sighed. "There's no reason for you to act like this. If Aveline's departure bothers you this much, do something about it, don't go savage on a dummy until you injure yourself."

"It doesn't!" Vilkas snapped. Farkas raised his eyebrows, and Vilkas lowered his volume. "It doesn't bother me."

"That's bullshit, Vilkas, and we both know it." Farkas was scowling. "Who are you fooling? None of us believe you, not Aela and certainly not me."

"Why would it bother me that she's leaving?" Vilkas' voice was low, his mind clearly somewhere else. He wondered if he even believed what he was trying to sell to Farkas. "She's absolutely asinine, she has no sense of urgency, she...she's closed off and frustrating and self-absorbed and she doesn't give a shit about anyone else—"

"You know none of that is true, brother," Farkas scoffed. "You know she's brilliant, you know she hardly ever thinks of herself before others. She'd put the welfare of that stray dog in the Plains District before her own."

_I know,_ Vilkas thought. He did know it. Why did Farkas think he was worrying so much? She'd be so busy protecting everyone else on the battlefield—_Worried? I'm not worried. Why in Oblivion would I be worried? The ice queen can take care of herself, I'm sure._ He wanted to throw something. Where was that training dummy?

"She puts us first, the Companions have always been first to her," Farkas whispered. "You like to pretend you don't, but you can see that, Vilkas, or you never would have accepted her as our Harbinger. Can't you see that what she's doing now is for _us_?" Farkas appealed to his brother, a large hand on his shoulder. "If she goes to war as our Harbinger, she takes us with her. She knew how much Kodlak wanted to keep us neutral. She doesn't want to resign, Vilkas, blow the smoke from your eyes!"

"Stop telling me about my wife!" Vilkas exploded. "She's _my_ wife! These are things—" He stopped, horrified, and stared at his brother. _These are things I should know about her. So why is it that you can see all this and I can't?_

"Oh, for the love of Talos!" Farkas exploded. "Swallow your pride for five minutes, brother, five minutes, and answer me this: you love her, don't you?"

"I..." He couldn't answer. Could he say it? Would he lose something if he admitted it? It certainly felt that way.

Farkas rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Do you want her to stay?"

Vilkas swallowed and lifted a bandaged hand to his eyes. "I...Yes."

"You know there's no changing her mind. She's going," said Farkas bluntly. "Do you want to go with her?"

"Farkas, I don't see the point—"

"Answer me, Vilkas." Farkas was very firm. He crossed his arms over his broad chest. "Do you want to go with her?"

"That's...Yes."

"Do you think she was a good leader?" Farkas pressed.

"Yes," he said, grudgingly.

"Do you love her?"

"Ye—Don't try to trick me, Farkas!"

Farkas gave his brother a wry smile. "There's something you need to be a part of. Come inside." Farkas stepped away from him, adding, "Don't even think about going after the training dummy again. Any more damage to your hands and you won't be able to hold a greatsword."

* * *

A/N: Sorry this took so long. I just finished editing a long manuscript and finally took some time off work. I'll have more time to write now. Aela and Farkas are trying really hard to nudge Vilkas in the right direction.

Thoughts?


End file.
